Breaking News
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: When Plans Come Together, #1. *Or: "That Time the Team Went to Russia Over a Story"* Another play on Oliver and Felicity's characters, this time involving hats, three wrongfully accused men, and a dog named Billy. Also, the A-Team AU no one wanted. Somewhat Laurel-centric. Always Olicity and Merlance. Updates on Fridays.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Breaking News  
Chapter: 1  
Word Count: 1606**

 **Notes:** Hey, guys! Happy New Year! It's been a long couple of months—sorry to keep you waiting. It's been kind of nuts around here; I've been working quite a few hours at work recently, and I've been sick over the new year.

I've had this idea hanging around since before I did Fic Bang, but I hadn't finished it. Recently I went back and started working with it again. It was _supposed_ to be a one-shot (but then again, so was Technical Assistance), but it's spiraled into 20,000 words and not really into the meat of it yet. That being said, I'm going to post each scene as a separate chapter because there aren't really any good breaking points.

To get the ball rolling, I'm going to post the first two chapters today. ;)

Special thanks to Kim, Lexi, MysteriousTwinkie, and bushlaboo, who were all freakishly excited over this fic. Thanks for your support—I love you all! :)

Thanks for reading! And, if you choose to write a review, thank you again. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 1  
(Or: "That Time Laurel was Searching for Heroes and Found Fugitives")**

With a start, Laurel bolts awake and stretches her sore back. That's what she gets for falling asleep at her desk. She glances over at her clock—two a.m., which means she hasn't lost more than thirty minutes. Good. The ancient banker's lamp over her desk flickers, but when she thumps it, the light stays steady again. That's what she gets for taking a job at the _Starling Gazette_ ; newspaper journalism is a dying breed, and half their equipment is older than she is. Her computer probably hasn't seen an update since the eighties, which is why she's resorted to the paper files strewn about her desk.

But this feels like the kind of story for file folders. It makes her feel like a private detective in one of those thirties film noir tales. Ever since Iris, her best friend, went to Russia on a story and never came home, she's been investigating enough to qualify for a private eye. The paper is barely getting by as it is, and both her father and Iris' are throwing their weight around as concerned cops, but have received nothing for their troubles. Even the Russian consulate insists that Iris West never entered the country.

Last week, she was at her wit's end, but her sister, Sara, gave her a lead. Laurel pulls up the set of files again; one read was not enough, and she doubts a second will quench her thirst any further. It's... unconventional, to say the least, but her daredevil of a sister told her—bluntly—that it was better than nothing. And with firsthand knowledge as a Marine Corps bomb tech, she also gave a glowing recommendation about the squad she sometimes worked with.

Despite that, Laurel wanted to do a little research herself. Getting her hands on the file required a few expensive bottles of scotch, but as she opens up the mostly-redacted file, she decides that maybe it was worth it. The file alone is enough research for an article about the rise and fall of the so-called "A-Team," a small spec ops task force that operated out of Iraq and... She turns the page. ...Other places that are redacted, apparently. Some unnamed, shadow government agency suggested a small group of elite soldiers to carry out nearly impossible missions, and it became Task Force Alpha.

 _And they were damn good at it, too_ , Sara had told her, along with wild tales that sounded like the stuff of legend. Stories of helicopter chases and desert rescue missions. _Just when you thought they were trapped_ , Sara had said, _they'd break out and catch the enemy unawares._ What had surprised Laurel was that the stories seemed to be true. Between the pages of the thick file, stories are told of a unit that could raid a highly-protected compound to rescue prisoners of war or escape from prison cells around the world.

And there are only _three_ of them.

Flipping to the last page, Laurel frowns. The tale is an unsatisfying conclusion to an impressive file. Over a year ago, they supposedly robbed the Central Bank of Iraq under orders from their CO, and in the process pulled off _the_ largest bank heist in recorded history. When their CO was killed in a bombing that same night, no one could corroborate the story, and they were all court marshaled. They'd been sentenced to twenty years in maximum security prison. But, being the A-Team and specializing in the impossible, they'd managed to escape within the first week there. And for a year, they've been on the run from the government with a dogged team of MPs that manage to show up right after they've left.

According to Sara, they survive now by taking odd jobs, specializing in the impossible. _They're daredevils_ , Sara had said. Coming from her, that meant something. _They like the thrill of danger, so they help people with no one else to turn to—like you. But you better pack some cash because they don't come cheap._

But the problem with hiring wanted criminals—even ones who try to help solve problems—is that they can't be traced or tracked. After going through every database she can get her hands on, she's found _nothing_. Truthfully, it would probably help if she had more than last names, first initials, and ranks. The files might be helpful for the military because of background, but Laurel doesn't care about profiling their skills and backgrounds. Still, the files on her desk intrigue the reporter side of her.

Opening the first one, she roams through it again: Major O. Queen, U.S.M.C., former team leader for Task Force Alpha. Sara served with him prior to the A-Team, and so she provided her sister with a first name. Oliver Queen, according to her, is a dark horse, intimately acquainted with most women he meets—including Sara. _Clever as the devil and twice as pretty_ , she had said of him with a wry grin.

His file paints a story of contradictions, however. Commendations for bravery mix with disciplinary actions. Various COs give performance remarks of varying degree—calling him both a liability and a valuable asset, often in the same sentence. The only thing everyone seems to agree on is a brilliant tactical mind and quick thinking in dire situations. His discharge was as a major, but he probably could have been a colonel under different circumstances: busted down several times, only to get promoted again.

Apparently, Oliver Queen's hobbies include punching out ranking officers.

Pushing the file to the side, she picks up another, this one on Sergeant J. Diggle of the U.S. Army. Unlike his CO, Diggle's file is full of accolades and praise, ending on the sour note of the mishap in Baghdad. He's the proud recipient of multiple medals, all of which indicate varying proficiency with weapons of all sorts.

It's a thin read, but even shorter is the file on Private First Class R. Harper, also Marine Corps. According to the date of birth on the records, he's barely twenty-one with nothing noteworthy about his career. There must be something about Harper, or else he never would have made the spec ops team. Laurel can't help but feel a little sorry for him and his poor fortune.

Though not officially listed as a member of the team, every spec ops mission needs a pilot, and it looks like they only worked with one: Captain F. Smoak, U.S.A.F. His record is entirely other and twice the size of Queen's, creating a baffling mix of files. Between references to psychological evaluations (redacted again), there are a wide array of formal reprimands about dangerous risks and a few medals awarded for bravery. It's also documented that he's been a Mensa member most of his life, along with IQ results of 158. A spotless ROTC career mixes with a Master's degree from MIT—both earned before he joined the military at nineteen. Flight records show he's capable of anything and everything, from helicopters to fighter jets, and—on one interesting occasion—a rig made from a parachute, a lawnmower engine, and some pipe. According to his record, an incident left him with vision less than 20/20, so he spent a brief period grounded as aviation repair. After that, the A-Team appears on his file, and suddenly he's got his wings again.

The court marshal hearing in his file, however, is crossed out with black bars. Whatever happened there, Laurel doesn't know, but it ends in an early release and an honorable discharge. Either way, Smoak is her in—the only free citizen among them. There's little else she can do until her military contact sends her the actual, uncensored file, but for the moment, it's all she has.

While technically a free citizen, he's proving to be as elusive as the rest of the team. Everything Laurel has searches is a dead end. Whoever Smoak is, he's a ghost: no credit cards, rental agreements, or bank accounts. Hell, she'd settle for a bicycle rental at this point. But no matter what she tries, Smoak isn't there. Even his military ID number is blocked on her copies, and that's viewable only with a federal warrant.

A ringing phone jolts Laurel out of her reading. The caller ID shows it as her dad, and she breathes a sigh of relief. A federal warrant her father could manage, with a judge that owes him a favor. "You have a name for me," she breathes without preamble.

"Good to hear from you, too, kiddo," Captain Lance retorts, with a slight hint of humor. "That name you needed for Iris?" Laurel grabs her pen as he chuckles. "You're not gonna believe this one."

She frowns. "Believe what?" she asks, a note of dread in her voice.

He chuckles again. "I have the uncensored file in my hands right now, Laurel, and I don't think it's gonna be of much use to you," he responds. Her stomach drops. "Your Captain Smoak is one Felicity M. Smoak." She blinks twice. "And her file is a disaster." The sound of a page flipping goes through the line. "Did you read the part about her flying that homemade rig?" Laurel makes a noise of assent. "She's at the Starling City VA Hospital."

Frowning, Laurel flips through the file on F. Smoak. "There's nothing mentioned here about injuries after their last mission," she counters, studying the last page again. "Maybe some cuts and bruises, but nothing serious enough to warrant a stay this long. They'd record something like that."

Her father snorts. "She's not injured, Laurel. She's in the psych ward."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter: 2  
Word Count: 3197**

 **Chapter 2  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Interviewed a Member of the A-Team")**

The moment the name comes out of her mouth, the VA hospital reception desk falls into an ominous silence. To her surprise, it's one of the doctors who turns, eyebrows knitted together. Her face is kind and her nametag reads _Caitlin Snow, M.D._ "Smoak?" the doctor repeats, eyebrows suddenly flying up. "You mean _Felicity_ Smoak?"

Laurel twists the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "Yes, I'm here for Captain Felicity Smoak." With a motion to herself, she adds, "I'm Laurel Lance. I'm a reporter with the _Starling Gazette_ , and I'm hoping to do a piece veterans returning home from the war."

Dr. Snow steps out from behind the desk. "Felicity hasn't had a visitor in over a year, Miss Lance. Not since…" She hesitates. "Well, it's complicated, but the boys _can't_ come by anymore." Laurel straightens at that; she means the A-Team, which is a very good sign she's in the right place. "Her mother doesn't visit her, either." She motions toward the hall ahead. "Come with me—she'll be glad to see someone who isn't wearing scrubs."

As she falls into step with the doctor, Laurel hedges, "When I was doing research on interview candidates, I read about her team in Iraq." She frowns. "I imagine they were close after working together for that long."

Dr. Snow shakes her head, lips pressing together in a firm line. "I'm not sure I believe that they were the criminals they were said to be," is her slow answer. "PFC Harper was here every Wednesday like clockwork, and Mr. Diggle always checked her out of the ward on Fridays to go get drinks together." She smiles. "And Oliver never missed a day. He helped her move in and transition to life here. For the first few weeks, I think he spent more time sleeping on her couch than in an actual bed. And every Saturday, all three of them were here to have lunch with her."

Again the physician shakes her head. "It's hard to reconcile those caring people with ones who would rob a bank for fun. And if they stole that money, they never really showed it. I watched Roy count out nickels and dimes for the soda machine in the cafeteria. Mr. Diggle doesn't own anything flashy at all." She laughs. "And Oliver… well, he's a _Queen_. He didn't _need_ the money. He's the one with the luxury car and the expensive motorbike and throwing hundred dollar bills around."

She turns a corner before motioning. "Psychiatric is down this way."

Mulling that over for a moment, Laurel decides to change tacks. She has to get what information she can _while_ she can, and Dr. Snow doesn't seem interested in saying more on the topic. "I was kind of surprised to see her in a psych ward," Laurel admits carefully, before launching into her cover story. "I found her name on a list of decorated veterans and thought she'd be a nice balance to my story. When I saw what had happened to her… I thought it could be an opportunity to talk about the men and women who _don't_ come back okay."

Frowning, Dr. Snow replies, "I wish I could say it was uncommon. The human brain is an incredible thing, but war is really beyond its understanding." She offers a grim smile. "War really is hell, Miss Lance. These halls are filled with people who suffer because their minds are responding logically to something completely irrational." She hesitates for a moment. "I can't give you specifics about Felicity's situation due to doctor-patient confidentiality, but it's unlikely she'll ever be able to leave."

Though asking someone with mental health problems about the A-Team could lead to a wild goose chase, Laurel still holds out hope. The team stayed with her through the beginning of her admittance, and it makes it more likely that they've remained in contact with her since. Still, getting answers might prove difficult. Though she's unsure if it's an offensive question, Laurel asks in a low voice, "Is she lucid?"

Whether rude or not, Dr. Snow doesn't flinch. "Always," she assures Laurel with a smile. "For the most part, Felicity is a lot of fun. Very animated—all smiles and hugs. She's always in the present and communicates very well with everyone." She breathes out a long breath. "She just... She doesn't see the world the same way we do. Felicity isn't grounded in reality the way we are. She hallucinates and suffers from symptoms that may make your interview difficult, like paranoia and intermittent memory loss, but you can usually find ways to help her come around." Laurel has to admit that isn't the best sign for her case; how can Felicity say anything if she doesn't remember? "Most of our other patients—and some of the staff—find it unnerving. Every once in a while, she'll talk to or see things that aren't there."

Stopping at one of the doors, the doctor hesitates with her hand hovering above the doorknob. "I should probably prepare you for the fact that she's very tactile," Dr. Snow warns. "We think that's how she tries to determine what is hallucination and what isn't. She may touch your arm or hover too close to you, but it's not a threatening gesture." She clears her throat. "However, I should probably warn you that she _has_ been violent in the past."

The psychiatrist shoves her hands into the pockets of her scrub shirt. "I've never had any problems, but one of the other psychiatrists on staff tried to suggest medication instead of therapy, and it upset Felicity enough that we documented the incident. She's thrown things at the staff before, as well. I'm going to post an orderly at the door just in case, but I don't think you'll have any problems. If she starts talking about ammonia, it's a trigger for her aggressive cycle, and you should leave before you upset her."

Laurel nods twice before the doctor knocks on the wooden door. When there's no answer, she knocks again and pokes her head in the door. "Felicity?" she calls out. "Felicity, it's Caitlin. I'm sorry to interrupt you, but you have a visitor."

Tentative steps take Laurel into the room, expecting something out of a horror movie. Instead, the room feels like a small hotel suite, but more personal. The walls are painted a bland taupe, but are covered with brightly-colored trinkets and photographs. The area is immaculate, while managing to be warm and inviting.

The woman who must be Felicity is blonde, her hair hanging long and free down her back. Plastic-framed glasses perch on her nose in front of blue eyes. She wears jeans and a pink t-shirt, but also a pair of pink socks with blue, cartoon whales on them. Her makeup is applied just as carefully as Laurel's own. It gives Laurel a little pause; whatever her image of a mental patient is, it is not Felicity Smoak. She could pass by the woman on the street without realizing her troubles.

Except for the fact she's dancing and humming to music that isn't playing.

Felicity holds up her index finger at the doctor, talking over the music that appears to be playing in her head. "Give me just a minute, Cait," she calls in a bubbly voice, never missing a beat. "The song's almost over and this is my favorite part." With that, she goes back to dancing, closing her eyes in the process.

Laurel glances at the doctor in concern, but Caitlin only shrugs with an indulgent smile, as if to say, _This is normal for her_. Part of Laurel wonders what caused this woman to have caused her mind to betray her like this. Never before has she met someone who couldn't distinguish fantasy from reality.

After a brief moment, Felicity finishes, rushing over to hug Caitlin. The doctor returns it without hesitation. "Caitlin, Catie, Cate," she chants with a wide smile. "I'm always glad to see you! And now you bring me a guest? Is it…?" Anticipation lights her eyes, but her expression falls as she glances over at Laurel. "Oh. No it isn't. But that's okay. I haven't had a guest in a long time."

As she drops onto the sofa, Laurel notices her shirt for the first time. She can't decide if it's a joke or not: a blue, cartoon rabbit is printed on it, wearing a straightjacket. The words underneath read _cute but psycho. things even out._

"I know," is all Caitlin says, her tone sympathetic. With one hand, she motions to Laurel before saying, "This is Laurel Lance. She's a reporter with the Starling Gazette, and she wants to interview you about the war. But only if you want to."

"Of course I'd love to—" Felicity starts, but turns her attention to the vase in the far corner. "Billy, stop that!" she barks, causing Laurel to jump in surprise. The blonde turns back with a roll of her eyes, her smile indulgent. "Sorry. My dog almost knocked over the vase again. That would have been twice this week. He's such a clumsy dog." Slowly, she offers her hand, leaning forward. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Lance. I'm Felicity Smoak. You probably already know that, since you're here, but it seems rude not to introduce myself."

Offering a guarded smile, Laurel shakes her extended hand. "Nice to meet you, too," she says, even though she hasn't decided the truth of that yet. "When I found out you were a pilot, I was hoping to talk to you about your experiences." She frowns; this woman is so young and so vibrant to be locked away. "If you don't want to, that's okay, too. I'd be glad to just talk to you for a moment."

Felicity bobs her head several times, a sunny smile still on her face. In fact, Laurel finds it almost eerie how cheerful she is. "Oh, _that's_ what I was trying to say before Billy distracted me," she mutters to herself, pulling her legs onto the purple sofa. "I'd love to talk with you, Miss Lance." She pats the cushion next to her." She waves her hands, shooing Caitlin away. "I love you, Caitlin, but I need to ditch my therapist for girl talk."

Dr. Snow simply laughs in response. "Of course, Felicity," she assures her with a smile. "Whenever you have enough, just let Miss Lance know." She turns to the reporter. "And, Laurel, when you're ready to leave, all you have to do is say so." Her tone hardens with a warning, as if to let them both know that this is on their turns. With that, she disappears through the doorway, leaving the door cracked behind her.

Felicity wraps her arms around her shins, and Laurel notices that the word _sushi_ is printed on her whale socks, too. "So, Laurel…" she starts, but pauses with a tilt of her head. "Can I call you Laurel?" When she nods, the blonde tries again from the beginning. "So, Laurel, what do you want to know?" Her brow furrows. "I don't really remember much about being a pilot. There was a missile and my head kind of went—" She makes a clicking sound with her teeth, crossing her eyes as she thumps her temple.

Trying to make the best of her situation, the reporter admits, "I didn't come here to interview you for an article." The blonde tilts her head to the side. "I came because—"

Suddenly Felicity rounds on nothing, yelling toward the bedroom, "Billy, would you _stop_ that? You are driving me _nuts!_ " Waving a hand, she confesses to Laurel with a smile, "I think it's probably too late for that, though." She giggles to herself for a long moment before motioning the brunette on. "I'm sorry. Please continue."

Wary now, Laurel tries again with, "I came because I'm looking for the A-Team, Felicity. I know you flew them in Iraq, and I've heard they're mercenaries for hire now." She leans forward, placing her hands in her lap. "A friend of mine is missing. Her name is Iris. She went to Russia to follow a case on an international assassin and now no one can find her." She waves a hand. "My sister, Sara, is a Marine. She knew Oliver and she was the one who told me about what you do. I need their help, Felicity. If you know anything about them, I'm willing to pay anything they want." Swallowing, she admits, "My sister, Iris' boyfriend, and her dad are trying to gather money. I can probably come up with a hundred thousand dollars, if you gave me the time."

"I don't know anything about an A-Team," Felicity answers, looking puzzled. "I flew several squadrons in Iraq, but not an A-Team." She motions to her head again. "Well, not that I can remember. Funny thing, memory. I can tell you're scared, Miss Lance, but I can't help you."

Laurel tells herself she isn't disappointed; there was a potential for this venture to be a wash. For some reason, she can feel her stomach sinking anyway. While she knows Felicity is lying, she also knows that this woman is a veteran who survived things worse than hell. Pushing her could cause more harm than good.

Defeat leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, Laurel starts to leave. A glint off of one of Felicity's many picture frames catches her eye, and she leans toward it, squinting. Her eyes quickly widen, however, when she realizes the subjects of the photograph. She's already reaching for it by the time common courtesy catches up to her. "May I?" she asks, gesturing to the photo, and the blonde nods once in permission.

It's a relatively new photo, unlike the ones of Felicity and a blonde woman with similar features. There are four of them in total, all situated around an army green helicopter with open side panels. The helicopter is scorched in places, and the entire crew is covered with ash so fully that they're almost unrecognizable. The shortest of the group has feminine curves and soot-stained blonde hair—unquestionably, Felicity Smoak—wearing the green fatigues of the Air Force, her dog tags hanging around her neck. A utility cover that matches the Marine uniforms is perched on her head, tilted at an odd angle. Despite the scorch marks on her skin, her face is split into a wide smile.

There's one man on her right, two on her left. The man to her immediate left is young and wearing the sand-colored fatigues and patterns of the U.S. Marine Corps. Her hand is on his shoulder, but his are crossed firmly over his chest, his cover shadowing parts of his face. Either his hair is black or covered in soot, but he looks incredibly displeased with his lot in life. The African-American man on the other side of him could easily make two of the boy, the green tank top he's wearing showing off his large arms. One of them is draped over the boy's shoulders, his hand resting on Felicity's tiny-by-comparison forearm. He should probably be the most intimidating of the group, but somehow he isn't, not with that small, sincere smile on his face.

The last of the four catches Laurel's attention for more than one reason. He's handsome—the kind of handsome that knows it and isn't afraid to use it as a weapon, judging by the glint in his eye. His hand is around Felicity's waist, wearing full uniform but missing his cover. He doesn't smile as much as the woman by his side, providing an odd contrast between them. One corner of his mouth turns up in a dimpled smile that presents a further dichotomy: the hard, set jaw with that dimpled smile. Instead of staring at the camera, he only seems to have eyes for the blonde at his side. That soft, indulgent smile is exclusively for her.

"Is this…?" Laurel trails off, unsure what to say. When she called them the A-Team before, Felicity had denied knowing them. Trying again probably won't help her cause. "Is this your team?" she asks finally, holding it so that the blonde can see.

The smile that graces Felicity's face now isn't wide; it's a small, private smile. Leaning in, she simply answers, "Those are my boys." She takes the picture from Laurel's hands, staring down at it as though it's her entire world. In some ways, it probably is. "After I got benched to plane repairs, I was reassigned to another unit. My eyes were shot, but they let me fly them anyway. They called them Task Force Alpha." As though it's a novel idea she says, "Some people called them the A-Team. But not me." She waves a hand, allowing, "Well, I do in my head. Sometimes I say things in my head and they come out of my mouth anyway." As if sharing a secret, Felicity whispers, "The Major doesn't like it when they call us the A-Team."

Turning back to her picture, the blonde continues, "They were the best. Did you know I flew them for two years? It was the longest I was ever assigned to a unit." She turns from the photo to the reporter, as if trying to refute an argument she hasn't made. "They said my boys did bad things, but I know better than that. Eighty successful missions in two years. We were going to go home." For the first time in the conversation, there's a break in that bubbly exterior, and her lips press into a thin line as her eyes grow wet. "But they never did. _I_ never did."

It hits Laurel like a battering ram. What she's doing here is nothing but good-natured torture, forcing this woman to relive the best moments of her life while she's stuck in the worst. Poor Felicity is only twenty-four, Laurel remembers again—and the rest of her life will probably be lived out in this room. All she ever wanted was for her team to go home, and yet she's stuck in this place.

"I'm so sorry for what happened to you, Felicity," she whispers, gathering her bag over her shoulder. There's nothing left to do; this might be a dead end for Laurel, but it's better that than making Felicity suffer any more than she already is.

She rises to her feet and is six steps from the door when a hand shuts it completely. Felicity stands in front of her, but it's not at all the Felicity she's known in the last few minutes. This Felicity has no fog in her eyes, no ignorant bliss clinging to her like armor. _This_ Felicity is one who could fly a fighter jet in Iraq. "If you're looking for the A-Team," she says slowly, her voice an octave lower than before, "there's a club in the Glades called Verdant. Go there at two a.m. Order top-shelf scotch on the rocks and wait until you're contacted."

Opening the door for her, the blonde adds with a wink, "Have a good day, Laurel!"

* * *

 **Notes:** I'm trying to be very respectful of mental health issues, so if I've messed something up let me know. I did extensive research on the subject before I began. In addition, if I've offended anyone, it was not my intention and I apologize.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter: 3  
Word Count: 1613**

 **Notes:** Sorry I'm a little late tonight; I slept late and didn't get a chance to post this before I went to work. I'm super excited about it, though. For reasons. Important reasons. :P

As always, thank you for reading. Should you choose to leave a comment I thank you again. Happy reading! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 3  
Or: "That Time Felicity's Uncle Deke Came to Visit"**

As soon as the reporter walks out, Felicity dives for her couch, lying across it as she digs through the cushions. A smile is on her face; it's nice to have something to do. For the last three weeks, the only exciting thing in her life has been watching the walls melt. Not to mention, she's glad to have a reason to make the call. Exchanging letters has been nice and all, but it's no substitute for actually seeing him.

 _Them_. She means _them_.

She picks up the burner phone Roy smuggled in to her, the one she spent a month writing encryption on to protect them. (Then he'd brought her five more, and she made one for each of them, removing the GPS locators and masking them just in case.) There aren't any numbers stored in hers, but she knows the three she needs by heart. (It's so much better for her to store them in her heart—her mind isn't working too well these days.)

She dials it as quickly as her fingers will allow, hoping he'll pick up this time. He only has his phone on to check messages, going by her suggestion. (The others don't listen to her because they trust her work, but she _can_ make mistakes, despite common belief. And excuse _her_ for going to drastic measures to protect her boys.)

It rings for what feels like an eternity, but then a voice says, "Hello?"

To Felicity, it's the most glorious, beautiful sound in the world. It's been three weeks since she heard it, and she's almost forgotten that sharp edge to his smooth voice—so soft and so hard, all at once. "Oh, you have no idea how glad I am I caught you," she sighs into the phone. "I could have left a voicemail because it's nothing pressing, but I just kind of wanted to hear your voice." She pauses before allowing, "Well, that and voicemail storage is all digital these days, which means there's a record of it somewhere and—" Stopping her own monologue for a change, she concludes, "I'm just really glad I'm babbling at you instead of a machine right now."

He laughs as much as he ever does in response, a breathy chuckle that makes everything in her world a little brighter. In fact, Felicity is sure it makes the walls glow a little bit—and Billy is wagging his tail as he curls up at her feet.

"Me, too," he answers sincerely, saying so much with so little. "How is my favorite zoomie?"

The blonde feels a little fluttery inside at that, like those butterflies in her stomach are threatening to come spilling out. "I bet you say that to all the girls, Major," she teases, rolling over on her back. "Everything is good here. I finally got rid of Billy's flea problem and Catie comes to see me every day. You remember Catie, don't you, Oliver? Dr. Snow? You talked to her when she came to see me." Something makes her frown. "She always blushed when you talked to her." Felicity sits up on the couch for a moment before lying back down. "Oh, and Roy's been giving me your letters."

"I know," Oliver answers with a hint of amusement. She can picture the smile on his face right now, small and sweet, as if finding her funny and not wanting to laugh at the same time. "You've been answering them." Felicity nods to herself; she'd forgotten about that. But that makes perfect sense; if Oliver wrote her, of course she'd respond to it and write him back. "I'm glad you're still working with Caitlin. I know how much more you like her than Dr. Cutter. And I'm glad Billy is feeling better, too."

"Are you wearing a hat?" she demands, another thought coming to mind. She has to ask them as she thinks them, after all; she never knows when they're going to vanish in a puff of smoke. Thoughts are probably magicians—they're good at vanishing acts. "Because it sounds like you're wearing a hat."

He laughs before assuring her, "I'm not wearing a hat. And as much as I enjoy talking to you, Felicity, I know you wouldn't have called if there wasn't something pressing. Did you have something to call about?"

Did she? Oh, yeah, she _did_. Laurel probably hasn't been gone five minutes, and already Felicity's brain has failed her again. "I got a visit from a reporter today," she tells him. "She was wanting to find you, but it was to hire you, not for the usual reasons pretty reporters are after you." Oliver coughs, but it sounds funny. "Her name is Laurel Lance." Shifting on the couch slightly, she pulls cards out of her back pocket, the two IDs she swiped from the woman's purse when she wasn't looking. "Her credentials at the _Starling Gazette_ are legit, and her driver's license is real." Felicity stares at it a moment longer. "And that is actually a _flattering_ ID photo. I should get this back to her somehow—those are rare."

"Felicity," he warns, a reminder to get back on the subject.

"It's the same old story, Oliver," she assures him. "Her friend mysteriously vanished in Russia. No one can do anything or wants to, so she called us to see what's going on." She toys with the IDs in her hand, flipping them back and forth. "Oh, and she said you knew her sister, Sara. She's a fellow devil dog, apparently."

"I served with a Corporal Sara Lance back in Afghanistan in 2009," he muses aloud. "She said she has a sister who's a reporter. That checks." Felicity can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. Her mind might be gone, but Oliver's is far from it. "I'll send the private after those IDs—we'll use your programs to run a background check. Could be the Colonel's making a play at us again."

Thinking out loud, Felicity notes, "I've always heard that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. If so, the Colonel needs a padded cell next to mine." It earns her a chuckle, which she takes as a victory. "Anyway, I sent her to Tommy tonight—the usual setup." She pauses, biting her lip. "Oliver? I hope she hires us. I miss my boys. And I miss your perfectly gorgeous face. Talking to you on the phone is nice, but it isn't the same."

"I know," he answers, his voice turning quiet in that thoughtful way of his, the way he talks when he's sad and doesn't want anyone to notice. (Felicity _always_ notices.) "I miss you, too." There's so much sadness in those four words. She hasn't heard him this sad since the court martial, when he begged her to stay in Starling. It makes her feel like agreeing to anything to make him smile again—even adopt a pet kangaroo, if he wanted. (Of course, Oliver _wouldn't_ want her to; he knows how badly kangaroos scare her, and he doesn't like it when she's scared. But if he asked in that somber sort of voice, she _would_.)

"Even if this doesn't pan out," Oliver continues, his voice stronger this time, "we'll do something." A promise laces his words. "We shouldn't go this long without seeing you. Digg misses you. I know you saw Roy last week, but it's not the same. We need find a way to meet up for a few days— _all_ of us." Felicity smiles, nodding at that. "We'll use your Uncle Deke as an excuse to get you out this time, okay? Diggle will spring you for a few days."

She beams at that. "Oh, that's fantastic!" she assures him. "How _is_ Uncle Deke?"

He laughs again. "You don't have an Uncle Deke, Felicity," he tells her in that careful tone again. She must have forgotten something; most people find it annoying that she forgets, but he just finds it funny. "Both of your parents were only children. You don't have an uncle, period."

Felicity sighs at that. There are so many good people out there she's never even met. "That's a shame," she answers. "I was just starting to like him!"

"No, you _hate_ him," Oliver corrects. "He used to beat you, but your mom insists you need to see him anyway. The doctors told her it might help you heal."

Sitting up on the couch again, she snaps, "I don't care if it makes me less crazy, Oliver! That guy used to _hit_ me and he's a creep. I don't want to see Uncle Deke."

"Felicity…" he starts, but then trails off as if he lost his train of thought. The blonde completely understands because the same thing happens to her, too. (Her train of thought doesn't just derail—it gets on the wrong track and gets into a head-on collision with another train.) "If we go to Russia, I have an idea of how to scam the plane. Can you fly a Gulf Stream?"

Snorting, she answers, "If it has wings, I can fly it, Major. And I'm kind of insulted you even felt the need to ask." There's a quiet between them on the line for a moment, and then a question starts boring into the back of her brain. (She hates it when they do that.) "Hey, Oliver?"

"Yes, Felicity?" he responds, and she can hear that smile in his voice again. Felicity's glad to put it there, even if she can't see it—he doesn't smile a lot and he deserves to be happy sometimes, too.

"What's a Gulf Stream?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter: 4  
Word Count: 1842**

 **Notes:** I know, I know. I'm late again. Stuff going on this morning and then I've been going over some of my other universes tonight. As per usual, I got carried away.

As always, thanks for putting up with me and reading my insane writings. Comments are always appreciated, too. ;)

* * *

 **Chapter 4  
(Or: "That Time Oliver Bought a Reporter a Drink... Or Four")**

From a dark corner of the club, former Major Oliver Queen stands, watching the woman who drops onto a stool at the far end of the bar. She does vaguely remind him of Sara, brunette instead of blonde with the same full face. Tommy does what he does best, chatting her up casually from the end of the bar. No doubt he's trying to find all the details of the situation so that he can pass them on to his best friend.

Or maybe he's just trying to get laid. One can never tell with Tommy.

"What do you think?" Diggle asks, draped across the sofa in front of the major. He watches the girl the same way Oliver does, but perhaps with a better sense of people. Digg always has been fantastic at reading a person in a single glance. "Looks clean to me. The MPs they put undercover are usually a little more solid under pressure. Her hands are shaking."

"I'll wait for the evidence," the major replies. After all, it doesn't do to start making a plan too early. Staying one move ahead of your enemy is easy; hell, even _Roy_ —green-around-the-gills Roy—can do that. But being two to three moves ahead, meeting an opponent's move before _they_ know they're going to make it, is the _real_ kind of plan. It's one that takes precision, detailed information, and a little dash of luck. "We'll see what Tommy has to say about her."

Feeling the presence before he sees him, Oliver isn't surprised when a voice calls over the music, "I went to see the captain." Two IDs are thrust in his face, and he takes them, studying the pictures. They match up right to him. "Batshit knows her forged documents, but I ran a more thorough test myself. The driver's license is real, and the press credentials compare to some others I lifted for comparison. Either she's legit or these are the best fakes I've ever seen."

"I'll put my money on them being real," Oliver answers as he watches the woman at the bar. She keeps looking around, as if expecting someone to meet her in the open. As if they'd risk that sort of exposure when they're being hunted by one of the best bloodhounds in the military police. "Both you _and_ Felicity can't be wrong about this."

Roy snorts. "Wouldn't trust me alone, huh?" he comments dryly. "Gotta have her word, too. Good to know where I stand." He holds up a folded piece of paper. "By the way, Loony sends her love. Or whatever the hell you talk about in those letters. If that's how you two get your rocks off, I don't want to know about it."

Ignoring him, Oliver unfolds the paper, titling it so that he can catch one of the spotlights above. It contains mostly information she already told him about over the phone—that she didn't _remember_ telling him about—but her writing style always amuses him: multiple long dashes and few periods, her paragraphs rambling into one another. While he's fairly succinct, she's verbose, her letter almost three pages in length. "She finally got rid of Billy's fleas," he comments aloud. "And John, she says hi."

As he gets to the third page, he runs his thumb across the indentations in the page where she wrote her closing: _Miss you like your chocolate chip pancakes and love you twice as much, Felicity_. Even with the sadness that suddenly overwhelms him, he smiles at the words—so wonderfully… _her_ , comparing him to chocolate chip pancakes.

Sometimes he hates himself for what he did to her, insisting she get help when she was exonerated and they were sentenced. She had begged to go with them, but he refused, knowing that kind of life wouldn't work for her. Felicity needs stability and routine in her life, and, because of the life he leads, he can't give that to her—not when his home varies between a basement and the back of their van. But as much as putting her in the psychiatric ward was the right choice, it was also wrong; she's already a prisoner of her mind, and now she spends her days locked in a cell, too.

His indecision must show on his face because a hand drops on his shoulder. John offers him a tentative smile, reading him with that uncanny ability of his. Having a right-hand man who knows him so well is a blessing, but at times like this, it's also a curse. "You made the right choice with her, man," he says, as quietly as he can over the blaring music. "I know it doesn't make it any easier, but she couldn't have held up to this." Oliver opens his mouth to argue, but John won't let him. "And don't tell me you did this to her because her mind was _already_ shot when she came to us, Oliver. What happened to Felicity just goes back to war is hell. And honestly? She's not as screwed up in the head as she has every right to be."

"That doesn't make it right, John," Oliver responds. "She's one of ours and we _left_ her." He doesn't know what else could have been done, but that doesn't make it right, either. It was an impossible situation, and no matter what choice they made, it would have felt wrong.

"That's because you're a Marine to the end," Digg retorts with a smile. " _Semper fi_ , right? Always faithful. And you have been to her, even if you don't believe it." He tilts his head to the side. "Best thing you can do now is get a job squared away. We'll find a way to spring her for a week or two—I know you've got a plan in that head of yours."

"When does he not?" Roy answers in a dry tone. He turns back to the brunette stewing at the bar, making a motion toward her. She's fidgeting in place and her glass is nearly empty, meaning she's deciding whether to leave or to go. "You better make a choice, Major." The phrase _we'll back your play_ is implied, not that he needs it said aloud anyway; Oliver knows that his team would follow him into Hell and back if he told them to—and they wouldn't even ask why.

"Go downstairs," he decides. "This could become a soup sandwich, and I don't want you two caught in it." Roy makes a noise of disgust in his throat and complies, but Diggle seems more reluctant. Because of that, the major tacks on, " _Now_ , Sergeant. I'll be fine."

They may not be military any more, but after being in that mindset for so long, sometimes Oliver can use it to incite a response. Sure enough, John takes a step toward the stairs, shaking his head. "We've gotta get you out in the field more often," he comments with a partial smile. "We haven't even taken this one, and you're already on the jazz."

Oliver only smiles in response before making his way to the bar. Without looking back, he slides through the crowds as if he owns the place (because he technically does). No one looks at him twice, probably because his handmade suit fits in nicely with this crowd. There's a seat right by the entrance to the basement, one that puts him in perfect view of the reporter, so he takes it.

Sliding one of the napkins from the bar in front of him, Oliver pulls a pen out of his pocket. In a cursive that wouldn't win any penmanship awards, he writes down the address of an apartment in Starling Heights, along with a time and tomorrow's date. He'll give Thea a call; she doesn't mind working as their intermediary, and, if the MPs ever get close, they wouldn't believe his eighteen-year-old sister would be involved with this.

"What are you having tonight?" a voice asks, and the major smiles at the voice.

Tilting his head up, Oliver replies, "Top-shelf scotch. Neat."

Tommy shakes his head, eyes widening in surprise. "What the hell, Ollie?" he demands, crossing his arms. Not exactly the welcome he was going for, but it will work. "You _know_ you shouldn't be up here. Your mark is sitting _right there_. She's gonna see you."

Smiling, the former major answers, "That's kind of the point, Tommy. I'll take that scotch, and I want to pay off her tab." It's the least he can do; she's been here for an hour while he's been watching to decide if she's another undercover. "Oh, and what's she been drinking after that scotch?"

"Martinis," Tommy answers, not looking pleased about the turn of this conversation. "Look, Ollie, as your friend, I gotta tell you that this is a _stupid_ move. She seems clean to me, but you never know. Maybe the MPs got smarter this time and started using civilians. That could explain why she seems nervous—she's been roped into this somehow." He leans closer. "But if you're using this opportunity to get laid—"

"I'm not," Oliver assures him in a sharp tone. Despite dalliances in the past, these days his interests lie with one woman. While he knows this Laurel Lance is beautiful, beautiful isn't enough. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"She got to us through the _captain_ , Tommy." His friend straightens ever so slightly; while he may not know names or faces of anyone on the team, Oliver has told him about Felicity being exonerated. She's a sitting duck in the psychiatric ward, and Oliver is _not_ going to let her be a target if he can prevent it.

"Send her a new martini on me," he orders, holding up the napkin, "and put this under it. Make sure she knows I'm the one buying her a drink."

Shaking his head, Tommy insists, "I know you're trying to protect your friend. Whether or not the military wants to believe it, I _get_ that she's part of the A-Team, too." Oliver winces; why they insist on calling them that, he'll never know. It implies that everything else is the _B-team_ , and there were a lot of other incredible spec ops units out there. "But this is _reckless_ , Ollie. Digg warned me about this… _jazz_ thing you have, but this is just stupid. You could be walking into a trap, for all you know."

There's merit to Tommy's words, of course, but Oliver isn't the same wild teenager his friend remembers. A lot has changed since then, and now the major's responsibilities are first and foremost to his team. His plans may be unconventional, but they keep his team safe and put most of the risk on himself—just the way he wants it. "Maybe," he agrees after a moment, "but there's only one to tell if you're in a trap or not, Tommy."

Holding out the napkin to his friend with a smile, he finishes, "You have to poke the bait."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter: 5  
Word Count: 1139**

 **Notes:** Sorry, guys, it's been a crazy week (or two). I haven't had the chance to respond to any reviews lately, but I hope to remedy that soon. As always, your wonderful words are appreciated, but I'm always pleased to know you've been reading. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 5  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Ordered a Drink and Got the A-Team Instead")**

Finishing her third drink of the night, Laurel debates the merits of having the cute bartender call her a cab. It's obvious that Felicity was misinformed or confused, that coming here wasn't the best idea. She's sure the captain probably meant well, but this is what the reporter gets for when her source lives in the psychiatric ward of the VA hospital.

Sighing, she swirls her glass around a little before taking the last sip of her martini. As she finishes, the bartender—Tommy, he said his name was when he was flirting with her—brings her another drink. Now she's obligated to take it. "Just when I was going to call it a night," she comments, teasing him. "You're good at this."

He grins back. "Not my choice, actually," Tommy answers, placing the martini in front of her, taking away the empty glass. "Turns out I'm not the only one interested in you." He throws her a devilish smile, and Laurel decides immediately that the bartender is trouble. However, she's surprised to find that he's _exactly_ the kind of trouble she wouldn't mind getting into. Placing the drink down on the table, he says, "This is from the guy at the other end of the bar." He winks. "And it's okay to tell him you already fell in love with the bartender."

As he moves on to the next drink order, Laurel turns to the man he mentioned. He's mostly in the shadows, and all she can see of him is a gray suit coat and some sort of amber alcohol in front of him. She holds the drink up in thanks before taking a sip.

When she goes to place it back on the napkin, she freezes, seeing the writing on it. With a decidedly masculine handwriting, someone has scribbled as though rushed, _1505 East Queen Boulevard, Apt. 309. 14:00. Give your name to the person who answers. I paid off your tab and gave Tommy the money for your cab fare. Consider it an apology for making you wait so long._

It ends in an ominous line: _We'll be watching, Miss Lance_.

She has to read the words again to make sense of them. It takes her a moment to realize that this is the contact she's been waiting for from the A-Team. They're here somewhere, watching her and deciding if they can trust her. No doubt they pick their jobs carefully, finding people who won't turn them in. But that doesn't explain how they slid that napkin under her drink; Tommy didn't seem to notice and she didn't even order—

As it dawns on her, she looks up, at just the right time to watch the guy at the bar rise to his feet. He takes another drink before stepping into the light and meeting her eyes.

He's tall with broad shoulders, wearing a suit like the temptation personified. Somehow he looks familiar, with short dark hair and a stubbled jaw. Blue eyes bore into her, sharp, calculating, and completely detached—unlike the normal lustful gazes exchanged across a bar. He finishes the last of his drink, slamming it down on the bar and throwing some money down for it. His gaze goes back to Laurel, one corner of his mouth turning up at her.

It's the smile that does it, clearing away that nagging sense that she knows him. His features are at war with each other, hard and soft at the same time; those sharp eyes with that dimpled smile. She's never seen him in person before, but there's no mistaking that smile. He's older than he was in the picture, his expression a little darker and overall a little more weary and haggard. No question that running from the military police hasn't agreed with Oliver Queen, but he still stands with a military posture and his head held high. He stares at her until he's sure she recognizes him, and then he does the damnedest thing.

He _winks_ at her.

The reporter in her wants to give chase, but the moment he moves, he disappears back into the low lighting of the club, vanishing like a ghost. Just like that, she understands why the MPs haven't caught them yet, after a year of hunting. Oliver Queen looked just as relaxed and comfortable at a bar in a nice suit as he did in Marine fatigues in that picture. He knows how to blend so that no one gives him a second look, and with the military trying to hide the embarrassment of his escape, most of the public doesn't even know he's a fugitive. Meaning he might as well be a ghost.

She stares at the spot where he was, blinking several times. A moment later, she drains her newest martini, shaking her head. If she didn't know better, she'd say he hadn't been there at all.

As she lowers her glass onto the table, Tommy is there with another. She starts to protest, but he winks at her. "On the house. Let's just say I don't take competition well." He gathers up her old glass, but pauses when he picks up her napkin from underneath, marked with scrawled handwriting. "You… I bet you probably want to keep this."

Intuition hits her like a battering ram. "You're in on it," she declares. His eyes widen for just a fraction of a second before he frowns, head tilting to the side. "You pass information for Oliver Queen. That's why he has his pilot send people here."

Tommy leans in across the table as another bartender slides behind him. "Look, Laurel," he warns in a low tone. "I can't keep up with everyone who comes in here. It's a big club and the lighting is low. A guy asks me to pass you a drink with a napkin, and I do. Because it's good for business. I don't know anything about my clientele."

The other bartender taps him on the shoulder as he slides a drink to someone two stools down from her. "Give it up, Tommy," is all he says, his voice rough around the edges. Somehow it still manages to be smooth. "You're a horrible liar and she's clean, anyway." The patron passes him a tip, and the man slides it into the pocket on Tommy's shirt.

Only when he nods at her with a wicked glint in his eyes does she recognize him again. Unbelievable—here he is again, right in front of her face. It seems that Major Queen is every bit as capable of slipping into a crowd as she thought—or slipping into the role of a bartender.

"We hope to see you again soon, Miss Lance," he adds with an insincere smile as he vanishes yet again.

Shaking her head, Laurel mutters to herself, "I'll be damned."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter: 6  
Word Count: 2810**

Hey, all! This chapter is hot off the presses; I just finished it Monday. On my phone. I felt like I needed to fill in some blanks.

Unfortunately, this story needs a lot of set-up before we get to the action part. Thanks for staying with me and for being completely awesome. :) Thanks for reading, and, if you are so inclined to leave a review, double thank-you. ;)

* * *

 **Chapter 6  
(Or: "That Time Oliver Introduced Tommy to the Team")**

Oliver is already dialing his phone as he enters the basement. The investigation into Laurel Lance might be complete, but there's also another matter to check. But one thing is certain: she isn't setting them up for anything. With the colonel hot on their trails, it's something to be considered. But if Miss Lance is a military plant, Roy has never stolen anything.

The thought leads him down another path. "Did you get it?" he calls as he shuts the basement door.

Roy slumps against a pillar, casually slipping a phone out of his pocket and tossing it to Oliver. "Already cloned it for our girl," he answers, his tone bored. "She says we'll be able to hear all her calls and read all her texts with this."

Needless to say, Laurel isn't a military plant.

"I'll hand this off to Thea," Oliver answers, slipping it into his pocket. Unlike her driver's license and press ID, it weighs heavily in his coat. Roy stares at him, as if expecting Oliver to throw him a bone. He should really know better by now. "Looks like you managed not to screw this up."

Roy's nostrils flare. "Looks like you managed to earn a 'screw you,'" he retorts without missing a beat. "So screw you."

"You're not my type," Oliver returns, barely paying attention. Instead, he digs in his pocket for a burner phone. When he winks at Roy, the kid shoots him the barest hint of a grin. "Digg, we'll need some firepower before we leave. We can't trust the Bratva's dealers not to talk." He presses the "1" on the dialpad. "Anatoly's gun guy has a loose tongue—especially when vodka is involved."

From behind him, the man answers, "Won't be a problem. Friend of a friend is sympathetic to our situation." Oliver turns to face him, offering a nod. "How much firepower are you talking about?"

The major lifts an eyebrow. "Enough to breach the Kremlin." It's unlikely they'll need it, but Oliver likes to be prepared for all possibilities. "A few automatics, a few rifles, a half-dozen grenades, and some C-4 to start. And whatever handguns you and Roy want to carry." He pauses as the line starts ringing. "Make sure you have a few cases of nine millimeter rounds, too—Felicity wanted me to pack her Beretta and I'll carry mine, too. And don't forget knives. Felicity likes to carry a good KA-BAR, and the three of us will all need a few for throwing." Diggle opens his mouth to ask a question, but Oliver already knows what it is. "I'll take care of the arrows myself."

There's an answer at the other end of his line at the same time that a familiar voice demands, "What the hell, Ollie?! Have you lost your damn mind?!"

Oliver turns just in time to watch a knife catch the edge of Tommy's shirt, pinning it to the wall behind him. The major levels a look at Roy, who shrugs. "It's a reflex," he answers, which is probably as close an apology as Tommy is going to get.

The voice on the other end of the line answers Tommy's question. "How many times do I have to say it? If _anyone_ has lost their damn mind, it's me. _I'm_ the crazy one."

"Give me just a second, Felicity," he tells her, which is met with a _Take all the time you need, Major_. He motions toward Tommy. "Cut him loose, Private," Oliver barks at his fellow Marine, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. "I'm sorry about that, Tommy. You startled us."

Tommy pulls his sleeve loose with a glare at Roy before pointing a finger at his best friend. " _You_ startled _me_ when you went out there and made contact with the client!" he retorts. "You were—"

Taking a dressing down from his best friend is not at the top of Oliver's list of priorities. He holds up an index finger at Tommy before saying into the phone, "Felicity, honey, I need a favor." Tommy's eyebrows shoot up with a silent question, and Oliver grimaces as he realizes he'll have to explain this later. Roy just snorts and Diggle shakes his head while talking to his weapons contacts.

There isn't even a hint of hesitation in her tone. "I'm here to help the team in any way I can, Major," she answers, her tone the same as if he had asked if the sky was blue. "Tell me what you need, and I'll make it happen. Unless it involves a kangaroo. Then all bets are off."

In spite of the situation, Oliver laughs. Only Felicity could be serious about the involvement of marsupials in his plans. "No kangaroos," he promises. The smile fades, and suddenly words escape him. He doesn't want to hurt her with his request, but he knows he will without context. "But this… this isn't for the team. This is a… _personal_ favor."

If it's even possible, her answer comes with more speed and conviction than before. "Anything for you, Oliver," she promises. "Kangaroos or not, I'm in." He shakes his head; Oliver knows he doesn't deserve this woman and probably never will. Hell, he isn't even in the same ballpark.

But that isn't going to keep him from trying.

God, he has no idea how to ask this delicately, how to let her know his inquiries are purely professional. "I…" Words fail him again, though that's nothing new. Give him an impenetrable building to breach, and he knows exactly what to say to motivate the team; but let him speak to one of the most important people in his life, and suddenly nothing seems good enough. "I… need you to look up the number of a Corporal Sara Lance. She's a Marine EOD tech."

He's trying to gather his thoughts when Felicity interjects in a quiet voice, "Well, that's good of you, Major." He winces as though on the receiving end of one of her nasty right hooks; that tone and the use of the title _Major_ are her ways of trying to distance herself from the hurt. "It's nice of you to try and reconcile with your ex."

"It's not about reconciling with my ex, honey," he argues, the words slipping out before he realizes it. He tries not to call her _honey_ , but he thinks it so much that sometimes the word falls out on its own. If she dislikes the pet name, she's never said anything. "I need to check out the rest of Laurel's story, and Sara will play it straight with me. I think she's gone Delta Force. It won't be an easy number to find."

Felicity scoffs. "Do you doubt me, Oliver?" _Oliver_. Good. He's back in her good graces.

"Never," he promises. Instead of believing in a higher power, he chooses to put his faith in Felicity.

She giggles in response to his answer. "I'll call you back when it's done," Felicity assures him. "In ten minutes, you can tell Corporal Lance _mazel tov_ yourself." There's a long pause where he can just picture the wide grin on her face, and he probably has a stupid smile to match. When she finally continues, it's in a quiet, vulnerable voice. "Hey, Oliver?"

"Yes, Felicity?" he returns, smile still playing on his lips. They do this at least once every phone conversation.

"I miss you and love you like my favorite patchwork coat," she blurts, words tripping over each other. "And I really, _really_ want to see you soon." There's a heartbeat of a pause. "All of you. I mean the team. I want to see all of them soon. But the other part was just for you."

He makes a mental note about the patchwork coat; he'll have to gather her things for Russia. This time smiling makes him hurt in a way he didn't when they whipped his feet in Iraq. Maybe Felicity will always be his salvation and his damnation; she brings him back from the dark places, but, at the same time, he's the one who has let her suffer in that hellhole.

"I miss you, too, Felicity," he answers after a long moment. Sometimes when he wakes thinking about her in the middle of the night, it nearly kills him to remember she isn't there. "And love you, too." He only hopes that if he says it enough, one day she'll understand exactly how much he means it. "We'll see you soon—I'm going to run Laurel by Thea and then it'll be just a few days."

"I have the biggest hug you've ever had waiting," she answers.

"I'll look forward to it," Oliver promises back. The hard part will be letting her go afterward.

After saying their goodbyes, he doesn't have to wait two seconds before Roy starts. "Just so you know, that is painful to watch. Like cruel and unusual punishment."

Oliver only shoots him a look before turning back to Tommy expectantly. He isn't merciful. "So this _is_ about getting laid," he decides in another misinformed conclusion, "just not with the girl I was thinking." He shakes his head. "Look, I get it. You're after Laurel's sister. But maybe you should try and think with something other than your—"

That isn't a thought he allows his best friend to finish. "That would difficult, considering Sara is married and her wife is a Delta Force commando," Oliver counters. The room is quiet except for Roy's low whistle. "Sara saved my life in Iraq. I owe her one. But I'm not going to throw in with a reporter I don't know without confirming the story first." With a sigh, he adds, "Sara is someone I trust, but she's my past. I'm not here to dig up ancient history."

Tommy lifts an eyebrow. "It's true," Roy interjects. "Felicity gets all weird when Oliver is with other women, and he wouldn't risk upsetting his beloved Batshit unless he was on the jazz." He offers a vindictive smile, and Oliver braces himself for what he knows will come next. "Isn't that right, Saint Oliver?"

It's a nickname he was better off without. In his early days on Task Force Alpha, he had a penchant for burying his problems in the warmth of a woman. But then everything changed, and suddenly meaningless sex wasn't enough. People started to notice when he didn't give a woman a second glance, and suddenly they took to calling him _Saint Oliver_.

But Oliver isn't the only one with a Corps nickname.

Tommy simply pokes a thumb toward Roy. "Who the hell is this kid?"

Biting back a smile at the kid's indignant huff, Oliver answers, "That would be PFC Roy Harper." He crosses his arms. "He's part of Task Force Alpha." It might be a little childish, but he adds, "They used to call him Abercrombie." The running joke used to be that Roy was too pretty to be useful. It might not be true, but he still reddens at the reminder of the name.

Oliver motions to where Digg chats with his friend in Farsi. That usually doesn't bode well; the last time Digg spoke Farsi, it ended with a lot of rope and a skirmish at the Mexican border. "And that's Sergeant John Diggle."

Tommy glances around, as if looking for a third person. "Where's your Captain you're always talking about?" he asks. "Shouldn't he be here, too?"

Diggle snorts as he slips his phone into his pocket. "That would be Captain Felicity Smoak," he answers as Oliver rubs at the bridge of his nose. This conversation couldn't have come at a worse time; the last thing he wants to think about is how she's stuck in that hellhole and it's his fault. Diggle turns to him. "Man, you gotta let this go. I think we all know Felicity makes her own choices." He rests a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "We'll see her again in a few days, okay?"

Nodding is the only answer he can provide for a long moment. It's an unnerving fact that he probably needs her a whole lot more than she needs him at this point. Fortunately for him, though, Felicity seems to want him nearby anyway.

Roy answers the rest of Tommy's question with, "Felicity lives in the psych ward." Tommy only blinks twice as his brow furrows. "Batshit Smoak is… well, batshit." He crosses his arms. "But underneath all that crazy, she's crazy smart. So she still flies us like she did in Iraq." He tilts his head in Oliver's direction. "And the Major is crazy about Captain Crazy, so it's not like we could leave her if we wanted to."

For a moment, all Tommy can do is stare. Finally he points at Oliver. "One of these days, Ollie, you and I are gonna have a long talk about whatever happened to you in the last eight years."

Not likely, but Oliver's phone starts ringing before he can answer. He smiles at the caller ID; that's Felicity's number. When he picks it up, she asks him, "So, how amazing am I?"

If she wants praise, he's more than happy to indulge her. "You're beyond amazing. You're remarkable, Captain."

"Well thank you for remarking on it, Major," Felicity replies, and he can hear the grin in her tone. "But you never have to humor me. I just want to feel a little needed sometimes."

Oliver can't help but snort at that. "Well, you're always needed here," he assures her. Because he knows she could potentially lead him off-topic, he adds, "I take it you found the number?"

As she reads it to him, he writes it on a scrap of paper on one of the tables. After goodbyes, he dials it. After five rings, he thinks he isn't going to reach Sara, but then there's a breathy, "Hello?"

He recognizes the voice immediately. "Hey, Sara, it's Oliver."

The amazing thing about Sara is that nothing ever seems to faze her. "I take it Laurel found you," she answers.

"She did," is his reply. After a moment of silence, he adds, "I heard you got married. Congratulations."

Sara sighs. "Don't bullshit me, Ollie—you've never been any good at small talk. I know you didn't call to hear about my Corto Maltese honeymoon or Nyssa. You're calling to ask about Laurel." There's a pause before she continues, "I don't know how much Laurel has promised you for payment—"

"One hundred thousand," Oliver answers.

As though he hasn't spoken, she continues, "—but she doesn't have your usual rates." She pauses like it's just caught up to her. "Ollie, Laurel can't get a hundred grand. She doesn't have anywhere near that. She's barely paying her student loans at this point. But I would consider it a personal favor if you could take this case anyway. She and Iris were roommates in college. They've been friends for ages, and she's _really_ worried. Iris isn't the kind to run off and disappear like this. Whatever is going on, it's bad."

Instead of replying to her statement, he reminds her, "You don't have to call in a favor, Sara. I owe you anyway."

She chuckles. "Ollie, I stood in front of the truck full of insurgents who were shooting at you and took out two of them. You pushed me out of the way so they didn't run me over. We're even. But if you do this and you _did_ have a debt to me, I'd consider it paid off."

"Of course," he assures her. Their finances aren't holding, and they need what cash they can get. Not to mention how obvious it is that Laurel isn't about to sell them out to the MPs. But he hesitates for other reasons. "And Sara?"

"Yes?"

"Could you not mention to Laurel that I called?" he asks. "We're going to need a clean break to get out of the country—I don't need her mentioning it to your dad and involving law enforcement."

Laughing, Sara replies, "I think I've already proved I'm good at keeping secrets, Ollie." She pauses. "Take care of yourself, okay?" She hesitates, a breath coming out in a sustained note. "And let your team look after you every now and again. It'll make you feel better not to be in charge."

Even if he does decide to take her advice later, he doesn't acknowledge it now. "Goodbye, Sara," he answers before hanging up the phone. Roy, Tommy, and Digg are staring at him by the end, and he knows it's time to give out more orders. "Roy, get Felicity's laptop so I can pack it in her bag. Digg, let Felicity know the details of your Uncle Deke play."

He throws on his suit coat. "I have a Gulf Stream to con."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter: 7  
Word Count: 1365**

 **Notes:** Hey, all! I hope everyone is having a happy Friday! (God knows I am; I have Saturday off this week.)

A little more plot development going on in this one. And some new (well, old) faces. ;)

A special thank-you for Elsie B, who pointed out a continuity error in the last couple of chapters. I have yet to fix it, but I wanted to make everyone aware that I know it's there. Also thanks to Elsie for looking over this chapter, too. :)

I appreciate y'all for reading this, and doubly so for any reviews. Thank you so much! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 7  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Told Her Life Story to a Phone")**

Laurel stares at the address that the cute bartender at Verdant handed her with her drink last night. After being sent down to Verdant, she expected another seedy business in the Glades. Instead, this is an apartment complex on the ritzier edge of town. Like the instructions say, she knocks on the door of apartment 309, in a series of three short knocks. She does it once, twice, a third time.

It's a long moment before anyone attempts to answer, but then Laurel can hear the sound of chain locks rattling on the inside of the door. A face appears a moment later, and it takes the reporter by surprise. The woman who answers it is _young_ , probably still a teenager. Her hair hangs in long, brunette curls as she tilts her head through the crack. "Can I help you?" she asks, arching an eyebrow with a frown.

Though it probably won't help her, she holds up the napkin. "I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I was told to come here. My name is Laurel Lance?" The girl just throws her a blank look in response. "I guess I have the wrong address."

"I think you have _exactly_ the right address," she answers, holding up two cards in front of her face. "Your IDs match, Miss Lance." She offers them back to Laurel, who blinks twice as she realizes that they're the press credentials and driver's license she lost. Throwing the door open, the teenager insists, "Come on in—we'll talk business."

When the reporter follows her in, the girl locks the doors behind her. "Sorry for the smoke and mirrors thing, Miss Lance," she continues. "They have to be careful because of the military police chasing them." The room is pretty basic—white walls and empty except for a single dining table in the center of the room. "I'm Thea Dearden. I'm an intermediary for the Team." Waving to the table, she motions for Laurel to join her. "Sit down and we'll talk details."

Still staring at the IDs in her hands, the reporter can't help but ask, "How did you get these?" Slowly she sinks down in one of the wooden chairs, staring at the girl across from her. No one ever stood near her at the bar, and there's no way Tommy—the bartender—could have done it. Oliver must have slipped by her unnoticed, pulling them out of her purse while the bartender chatted her up.

The girl shrugs. "Ollie sent them." It takes Laurel a moment to realize she means Oliver Queen; Sara sometimes calls him that, too. "Where _he_ got them is anyone's guess—he can't pick pockets worth a damn." Then she pulls two cell phones out of her pocket, one sleek black and the other in a red case that's oddly familiar.

Laurel wishes she'd known who had taken her phone before she bought a replacement.

Thea shrugs unapologetically at Laurel's unspoken question as she slides the phone toward her. "It's standard procedure," is her brusque answer. "It's for the team's safety—they're on the run, after all."

"How did they break through the encryption and recover the data?" Laurel can't help but ask.

The teenager shrugs again. "Above my pay grade," she replies while reaching for the other phone. Laurel slips hers into her bag, wondering if she can pull fingerprints off it later. "Here's how this is going to work: I'm going to make a call. The person on the other end is going to listen to the details of your problem and text a price quote at the end, based on the kind of situation you're talking about." The teenager pulls out a piece of paper. "Is the tentative amount of money you can gather still one hundred thousand dollars?"

Laurel's mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. She's only said that to one person, and that paints a much clearer picture of what's going on. "Yeah," she answers after a moment. "He keeps in contact with Felicity, doesn't he?" the reporter in her can't help but ask. "That's the only way he could know that." Then she remembers when she first noticed her credentials were missing: right after she left the psych ward. "She stole my IDs and my phone, didn't she?"

Thea flattens her hands on the table. "Look, Laurel," she starts, "I've never met anyone named Felicity. The only person I know is Ollie, and his idea of having a conversation is listening while _you_ talk. So how about we skip the Spanish Inquisition and focus on business?"

All Laurel can do for a moment is nod mutely at the girl. As if she expects the response, the teenager picks up the phone and dials a number. "Hey," she says into it after a moment, switching it on speaker mode. "We're gonna start now. Ready?" A text message comes through almost immediately, and she checks it, nodding once at the answer. "Great. Okay, Laurel…"

For the next hour or so, Laurel spills out the issues with Iris, how she went to Russia chasing a story and never returned home. She gives Thea all the details she asks for, and occasionally a text message comes in to ask for more. Finally, the last text message comes, and the girl ends the call before saying, "Your quote is eighty thousand dollars. That can be adjusted up or down as much as two grand, depending on what expenses come up. In order to hire them, you'll have to have the money on hand—they'll use it for expenses. You won't pay for their services until after it's over. If they're not successful"—she snorts and rolls her eyes—"you're out the expenses, but won't have to pay their fee. Are you okay with that?"

Suddenly exhausted, all Laurel can do is nod again. "Okay," Thea continues with a nod. "You'll be contacted within the week. Go home, pack a change of clothes and the money—in cash. Keep it in your trunk." She waves a hand. "If you get cold feet, you can come back here or go back to Verdant." Laurel startles; she wasn't sure the teenager knew about that, either. "If you show up at either place again, it's a cancellation." She crosses her arms. "Good luck, Laurel—it sounds like you're going to need it."

The reporter is halfway out the door before Thea adds, "You've gotta be desperate if you're hiring _them_."

As soon as she closes the door behind her, Laurel pulls out her recently returned phone, using a tissue to touch the sides and slide it into a back pocket. Then she pulls out her new phone and selects her father's number from the screen.

"Lance," he answers, his voice gruff. Must be a bad day at work.

"Hey, Dad," she greets quickly. "I was wondering... could you run forensics on my phone? It has to do with an article I'm working on."

"Is this the same article that you were writing when you requested the file on Captain Smoak?" he asks in a quiet voice. She falters in her steps; usually her dad doesn't ask about her cases. In a hushed tone, he continues, "Because the military police were here asking questions. Some colonel with a bad attitude. I don't know what you're getting yourself into, but it doesn't look good. Those fugitives your captain flew in Iraq? They think she's still in contact with them."

"Remember the trouble Iris got into?" she asks. "Sara recommended some people who might be able to help. Making contact has been... difficult, and I don't know if they'll even take the job."

Her father sighs. "Laurel, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" he demands. She doesn't answer, which causes him to sigh again. "Whatever it is, be careful. They don't send a full-bird army colonel to ask questions about military personnel files unless there's something big going on. _Especially_ when he's army intelligence. I can promise you ten minutes with our forensics guy—Barry's good at that kind of thing and you know he'll do anything he can to help Iris."

She smiles as she answers, "Thanks, Dad."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter: 8  
Word Count: 2574**

 **Notes:** I hope you all are having a better week than I am. It's been really nutty at work and I've been in bed embarrassingly early. I know I was horrible answering reviews this week. I'm sorry. I'll get back to those soon.

Anyway, have a new chapter. :)

Thanks again to Elsie B for taking a thorough glance over this chapter for me. Reviews are always appreciated, but thank you very much for reading. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 8  
(Or: "That Time Thea Got the Team Back Together")**

As soon as the door closes behind the reporter, Thea calls, "What do you think?"

She turns just in time to watch him move like a shadow from the back of the apartment. It's a new characteristic; he used to walk less like a ghost and more like an actual human being before he shipped off to Iraq. But despite that, he still looks like the brother she's known all her life: dressed in a gray sweater and jeans, leaning against her wall.

But there are some things that aren't like her brother. His posture is stiff as a board, and his eyes dart around the room as he enters it. Sometimes loud noises make him jump. And, every great once in a while, when he thinks she isn't looking, a sadness so deep washes over him that she wonders how he manages to hold it in.

But they don't talk about that.

They're Queens, after all, and Queens don't talk about their feelings.

Ollie throws her a small smile—the most he ever gives her anymore. Instead of answering her, he pulls a cell phone from his pocket. It takes him a minute to navigate the touch screen, but she can see him press the "2" on the dialpad before he holds it up to his ear. Thea's brow knits in confusion as she wonders who he's calling, but then she wonders who number one is.

"Dig," is his laconic answer, winking at his sister as he says it. What he wants to dig, she doesn't know, but Thea has long since accepted her brother is a mystery she isn't going to solve. "We have a client. Pack your bags for Moscow. We leave in five days." There's a brief pause. "I can't slip past security—they've seen me at the hospital too many times." Thea frowns. What hospital? "She'll need to be reminded we're using the Uncle Deke play to spring her—and make sure she's written it down." Suddenly his face brightens in a way she hasn't seen it in years. "You let me worry about scamming the Gulf Stream. I need you to scam us a pilot." Another pause. "No, you pass the word on to Harper. I'll handle Felicity."

The name resonates immediately. Hadn't Laurel said something about a potential pickpocket named Felicity? Thea snorts. That sounds about like her brother's type: the more dangerous and volatile, the better. Maybe some things haven't changed.

He's barely slipped the phone back into his pocket before she asks, "Is that your girlfriend's name? Felicity?"

The name isn't completely out of her mouth before he tenses. He throws her a warning look before giving her the complex answer of, "No."

She tries again with, "And who is Dig? Is that a member of your team?"

Silence greets her. In response, Thea simply places her hands on her hips. They lock eyes for a long moment, and finally Ollie heaves a deep sigh. "Speedy, the less you know, the better," is his response. She rolls her eyes as she mouths it along with him. It's textbook Ollie at this point: the moment they start anything beyond small talk, he shuts down.

"I'm so sick of you telling me that!" Thea snaps, her exasperation boiling over. "I see you more now than when you were doing… God knows what in God knows where"—he flinches—"but I feel like I actually knew you back then! You never tell me anything anymore!"

His expression stays neutral—not that she expected anything less. He used to argue with her, often yelling and revealing that volatile temper. But not since the Corps kicked him out. Now it's all icy glares and calm tones.

In response, Ollie simply stares at her as though she's someone he's never met. It's eerie, watching her brother regard her like a stranger on the street. Not soon enough for her liking, the familiarity comes back in his eyes and he sighs. "Sometimes I still think of you as the little girl who followed me around in pigtails," he admits in a gentle tone, both an apology and not at the same time. "I forget you've grown up, too."

Quiet lingers between them for a moment, and Ollie nods once to himself. "You want to know about the team?" He doesn't wait for her to answer before turning, motioning her on behind him. "Come with me. I'll show you."

Before he can, his phone rings. As soon as he sees the number, he answers it, holding up an index finger at Thea. "Felicity, can I call you back?" Ollie asks, his tone almost gentle. Thea doesn't get to hear him like that much anymore. "I'm with Speedy"—she groans at the idea of anyone knowing her old nickname—"right now. I can't—"

Whatever this Felicity has to say, she manages to make him go quiet. He stops so quickly Thea nearly topples into him. "What?" he demands in a dangerous voice that sounds not at all like her brother. "How the hell did he find us?" After a moment, he runs a hand down his face with a long sigh. "Damn it. I should've known. She won't turn us in, but she'll leave a nice, clear trail for the colonel to follow."

Oliver brushes past her, starting to pace. This time Thea can't hear a muffled voice on the other end, and she can only assume they're sharing a long, awkward silence. After what feels like five eternities, he finally asks, "Can you hack into the SCPD and make it look like there weren't any hits on the forensics?" Thea's eyebrows shoot up. Ollie's girl has skills.

There's a short pause before Ollie—Oliver I'm-allergic-to-smiling Queen—actually laughs. "I wasn't trying to insult you," he assures her in a placating tone. "I need you to hack into the SCPD computers and erase that information, okay?" He pauses, brow furrowing. "And keep an eye on the colonel's movements. We might have to move quickly."

The pause is brief this time. "I have some other details to talk to you about, but there's a conversation I need to have with my sister." He chuckles while shaking his head, and it's almost freaky how much it makes him look like the old Ollie again. Thea has forgotten how much she misses him. "I'll call you back in a couple of hours."

The smile on his face reaches sickening levels of sunny as he replies to her words, "Yes, Felicity?" While his lips stay quirked up in a grin, his eyes turn sad. "I miss you, too, honey." Thea bites down on the urge to groan. For a girl who isn't his girlfriend, he certainly talks to her like she's his girlfriend. "But we'll see you soon, okay?"

As he slips the phone back into his jacket pocket, Oliver motions her toward the back of the apartment, to the part she never dared to explore. There's a narrow hallway on the north side, and Thea follows her brother into a small room at the end. She stops short as she takes it in: purple walls and bright colors everywhere, down to the polka-dotted comforter on the bed. By the nail polish on the dresser and the lipstick on the vanity, it belongs to a woman, but a fine layer of dust coats everything.

Ollie moves through the room as though he knows it well, but she pauses at the threshold. "Ollie?" she asks in a small voice. "Whose room is this?"

He doesn't answer her, frowning around the space instead. "I know she has a picture in here," he mutters to himself. "She always has pictures." His eyes flash to the top drawer of the nightstand. In an instant, Ollie has it open, pushing aside what look like prescription bottles to pull out a large picture frame. "Perfect."

He turns to Thea with a smile, and it seems to light up his entire face for a moment. "You wanted to know about Task Force Alpha?" he asks her. Ollie places the picture frame into her waiting arms. "This is us."

Whatever Thea expected from an elite military team, the photo in front of her is far from it. Instead of stiff postures and straight faces, their picture doesn't look dissimilar from the one she took with her friends last summer: a group of four, laughing and smiling. Ollie stands in the middle of the group, laughing and lighter than she's seen him in years. An African-American man with a small, sincere smile rests an arm twice the size of Ollie's own on her brother's shoulder. To their left, Ollie throws his arm around the shoulder of a lanky boy who can't be much older than her, his nose wrinkled at the display of affection.

Perhaps the largest oddity in the picture, however, is the woman slung over Ollie's shoulders, arms wrapped around his neck and legs locked at his waist. Her blonde hair falls around her face and her glasses are slightly askew, but her smile is stunning.

"Everyone thinks there are three of us," Oliver tells her in a quiet voice. Thea jumps; somehow she'd forgotten him while staring at the photograph. "But there are really four." He points to the man standing left of him in the photograph. "That's John Diggle, army sergeant."

Thea snorts as she glances up at her brother. "You, working with the Army?" Her lips press together. "I thought you said that stood for Ain't Ready to be a Marine Yet."

Ollie smiles. "Digg's a Marine in the only way that matters," is his cryptic answer. Slowly he points to the boy on the other side of the frame. "That's PFC Roy Harper. He's a jarhead, too."

After studying his face a moment longer, she concludes, "He's kind of cute."

Her brother makes a face at that, but his gaze slowly turns back to the picture again. His fingers slide over the glass, to where the blonde is. Something changes in his smile, softer and smaller but somehow managing to lighten his expression twice as much. "And this is our Air Force flyboy, Felicity Smoak. She's a Captain."

"This is Felicity," Thea realizes aloud. "She's part of your team." Ollie only nods in response, while another burst of intuition hits her. "That's how Laurel made contact—she found this Felicity."

The answer is clearly written across his face, but he offers a few words anyway. "Felicity was exonerated after… what happened," he replies slowly. "She doesn't have to worry about the MPs following her every move." He smiles suddenly, and Thea wonders how he can manage it with such sad eyes. "This is her place-under a false name, of course. Since she isn't here, she let us remodel it, and now we use it for business."

Her gaze immediately darts to the dust covering the dresser, the few sad items of clothing in the closet. As if sensing her coming question, Ollie volunteers, "Felicity is… battling some mental health problems as an inpatient." A weary sigh leaves him. "She needs the stability of the hospital, but she's…" He presses his lips together, looks away for a moment. "She needs us, too. So we find… creative ways to break her out so she can come with us."

There's a finality to his tone, a closing of the subject that warns her he isn't going to say anything more. Not that Thea would ask anyway: Ollie never tells her anything he doesn't want to share. So, instead, she changes tactics. "Well, are you going to tell me about them?" she demands.

The grin that answers assures Thea he's more than happy to indulge her. "I selected Digg—that's what everyone calls John—because he's a weapons expert," Ollie begins slowly, gaining speed as he goes. "I thought he'd be cold and ruthless." He shakes his head, his lips twitching upward the barest amount. "But he's one of the kindest people I've ever met. When things look grim or when tensions are high, John is the voice of reason. He reminds us why we do what we do." A breathy chuckle resonates between them. "And when I'm wrong, he's my reality check.

"Roy… is our mechanical expert," Oliver continues, less tentative this time. He laughs, a sharp, short sound deep in his throat. "I think he could build an engine out of two pipes and some rope." The smile slides off his face. "We're the only family he has. He tries to be gruff—pretend he doesn't care about us—but it's because he's lost everyone else." He snorts. "Quick with a snide remark, slow to trust."

He takes the photograph back before he replies, fingers drifting over the glass where his blonde pilot stares back at him. "And Felicity, well…" Ollie's smile reappears. "She's Felicity." He's silent for so long that Thea thinks he's finished talking, but he finally adds, "I don't think she's ever met anything she can't excel at." A snort, and then his lips turn up at what must be an old memory. "Except cooking." Ollie shakes his head as Thea bites back a smile. "She's…beyond amazing. There's no aircraft she can't fly, no circuit she can't repair, no firewall she can't hack." With another laugh, he adds, "She's the bright spot in this team. No matter how bad things look, she always has a smile and a pun ready."

As he turns to put the photo away, Thea shakes her head. This time she can't fight the smile that spreads across her lips; he can't tell if he's hopeless or oblivious. Or maybe both. Either way, it's kind of sad. Because she knows that pushing him too hard will only make him balk, she decides to nudge instead. "And you miss her," she concludes for him.

"Of course," is his response. Thea's eyebrows fly up. Maybe not so hopeless or oblivious. "There's a part of this team missing without her with us. We miss her every day."

Okay, maybe she had him right the first time. "No, I meant you miss her, Ollie," Thea tries again. "Not the team."

This time Ollie meets her eyes, and they light up for a brief moment. "She's my right hand," is his simple answer, spoken as though it should be obvious to her. "When everything goes wrong, she's the one who keeps us going." He shakes his head, but there's the ghost of a grin on his face. "I've seen her cracking jokes while we pulled bullets out of her."

Thea nudges his shoulder with her own. "And am I ever going to meet them someday?" she teases, already knowing the answer. Ollie's funny about things like that; no way he'd want his team and his baby sister in the same room.

As she braces herself for disappointment, Ollie's expression turns thoughtful. "After the mission," he decides slowly. Thea's eyebrows shoot up. "When we get back, I'll introduce you to the team."

If they get back, he means. She knows what they do is dangerous, that every time they make it back is a miracle. Already her stomach sinks; for the next two weeks, she'll be sitting around, wondering if he's still alive—and unable to tell anyone about her concerns.

She wraps her arms around her brother's neck, moving so quickly that Ollie tenses a little before returning it. "Come back in one piece, okay?"

He kisses her forehead. "Always," he promises with a wink.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter: 9  
Word Count: 5235**

 **Notes:** As per usual, I'm running behind on review replies this week. I'm working on some other things outside of work, and so I haven't been writing or online as much. Anyway, thank you all for your lovely reviews and for reading. I plan to start answering as soon as I get home from work tonight.

Also, we're staring to _really_ get the ball rolling in this fic. ;) This is definitely one of the longer chapters, and I think you guys have been waiting for this for several weeks now. Anyway, there's a lot of character interaction going on. :D

Special thanks again to Elsie B for proofing this chapter. :)

As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 9  
(Or: "That Time Laurel was Abducted by Mercenaries")**

Laurel jumps at the sound of a car alarm in the distance, stopping in the middle of the parking garage. The sound lasts only for a second, but she takes a breath before continuing toward her car with a shake of her head while rolling her eyes at herself. Ever since she left that apartment in Starling Heights, she's been like this, expecting the A-Team to pop out at any moment.

Maybe she should cancel this. Sure, Iris hasn't turned up yet, but she's hiring _mercenaries_. Admittedly, it would cut through all the red tape, but Laurel is currently carrying _forty thousand dollars in cash_ in her trunk, and she doesn't always spend her days in safe neighborhoods—not when she's hunting down the next story. It feels like she's risking _her_ life, too.

As if to give merit to her thoughts, a black panel van suddenly pulls into the parking lot. It pulls into a space just down from hers, but it's nothing like Linda Park's sleek Mercedes. Two men hop out, but Laurel focuses on the boy in the red hoodie. Despite being smaller in stature this partner, he carries himself with intent, as though this isn't his first rodeo.

Knowing what comes next, Laurel says to them, "You can take my purse if you want. I don't have any money on me." It's true; every penny she has is in the trunk, saved up to go after Iris and hire her mercenaries.

The boy snorts as he stops, crossing his arms. "You _better_ if you wanna hire the A-Team," he retorts, seemingly unimpressed by her answer.

"I can handle this," the other man assures him as he steps forward, and only then does Laurel _really_ glance over at hm. He's wearing a gray hoodie over a black v-neck shirt with jeans, a black baseball cap on his head that proudly displays the Marine Corps emblem in gold with the lettering _USMC_ underneath. The bill shades his eyes, but she doesn't really need to see all of Oliver Queen's face to recognize him at this point. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, Miss Lance. I'm Oliver Queen. This is Roy Harper. You wanted to hire us?" She nods, and he asks, "Do you have the money?"

She winces. Laurel thought she'd have a few more days to liquidate some things and get the remainder of the money. "I have forty thousand," she admits to him slowly. "Thea said I'd have the week to get the rest of the money, and I don't have everything in cash yet."

The boy in the red hoodie snorts. "That's it? Forty grand?" he demands, incredulous. "Lady, forty grand won't keep us in _jet fuel_."

"Take it easy, Private," Oliver warns over his shoulder in a sharp tone. As he turns back to Laurel, he corrects, "Thea said you'd be contacted _within_ the week, Miss Lance." He sighs, glancing back at his partner. The two of them exchange a set of glances that she can't read. After a moment, he offers, "I can scam what we need and you can steal the rest." Laurel's eyebrows shoot up; he's gruff and terse, not at all the kind of person who could gain someone's confidence.

"You and your strays," is Roy's remark, shoving his hands in his pockets and rolling his eyes. "For a hard ass, you have a soft heart." Oliver barely even glances in his partner's direction. "Sometimes I think you forget this is a business."

The major doesn't even acknowledge the boy's comment, his expression neutral. "Roy's a little rough around the edges," he offers with a hint of apology. A hint of a smile graces his lips. "He might be difficult to get along with now, but after he saves your life in a few aerial bombings, he starts to grow on you." He motions to the van. "If you still want to hire us, we're going now."

She stops, biting her lip as she looks between her car and the two of them. Oliver must sense her hesitation because he offers a tentative smile. "You're either with us or you're not, Laurel," he warns her in a gentle tone. "If you're with us, grab your bag and leave your cell phone in the trunk. If not, we're gone." He crosses his arms over his chest. "You won't get the chance to hire us again. I need to know now: are you in or out?"

Ultimately, the choice is made for her because of Iris. Her friend's father put money in on this venture, as did her boyfriend, and Laurel owes it to them to attempt it now. Instead of answering, she unlocks the trunk of her car, simultaneously pulling her cell phone out of her purse. She grabs her bag next, pulling it over her shoulder, but she hesitates before dropping her phone. "I'm in," she assures him. "But I need to make a call to my dad and—"

Oliver doesn't let her finish the thought, shaking his head. "You can do that when we get to Russia," he insists. "I'll get a burner phone. I'm not traveling with a traceable cell phone." Sighing, Laurel locks her phone up in the trunk as well. When she turns, it's to find him pulling the sliding door open for her.

Following behind her, he slides between the front two seats to take the passenger side, as Roy starts the van again. He huffs. "Is this another one of your projects, Major?" he demands of his CO. "Your bleeding heart might be the only thing keeping you from being a complete dick, but it won't keep us in cash." He jabs a finger in his partner's arm while taking a curve _way_ too fast for Laurel's liking. "A few more jobs like this, and we'll be out on the streets."

"That's why we estimate high," Oliver retorts, hanging onto the handle over the door. Somehow he manages to look completely unfazed in the process. Meanwhile, Laurel fumbles with the seat belt while trying to remain in her seat. "Gives us some wiggle room. The jet fuel is going to be the biggest cost. You could steal a ring off a mark's finger without them noticing, and I can con the rest of the major expenses. And I have some contacts in Russia—Anatoly still owes me from when I saved his life." He offers a full smile this time; both corners of his mouth turn up, even if his lips are still pressed together. "The Bratva can get us just about anything."

The name brings dread to her gut instantly, but she supposes that's the point. How Oliver ended up running around with the Bratva is tale enough, but she's not sure she _wants_ to know why the Russian mob owes him a favor. "We need to find a way to fly under the radar," Roy notes. "We don't want anyone asking questions. I guess we should be glad we have our own pilot." That's news to Laurel; the only pilot they have isn't mentally healthy enough to fly. "Most pilots get a little touchy when their wings are on the line." He nudges Oliver with his elbow. "You know that better than anyone."

Laurel's eyebrows narrow for a moment before she realizes he's referencing their former pilot. The major, however, doesn't bite. "That's why we have our own pilot," he answers in a reserved tone.

The two men share a long look that she can't read. "No, we have her because she needs us," Roy corrects. "And because you won't let her go. While it's great we have someone to fly us, I'd like to find someone else. Batty's a great girl, but I'm not sure if I can fly with her anymore. She's reckless. Do you not remember the _last time_ ? She did a _barrel roll_ . In a _helicopter_ , Oliver." The major releases a short, silent laugh while Roy shakes his head. "There weren't any side panels. I had to hold on to keep from skydiving—and if Digg hadn't caught your arm, you would have been a splat on the highway!"

"But he _did_ ," Oliver answers in an even tone, "and I lived to tell the tale."

"Well good for you," Roy retorts, his tone biting. "My nerves _didn't_ ." He hangs a sharp right, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Laurel thinks he might have a point; the way the corner of his eye is twitching lends credibility to his statement. "She's great at what she does, don't get me wrong. But no sane man would _ever_ get in a lawn dart with that crazy b—"

"Did you see the sunrise this morning?" Oliver asks conversationally, cutting through his subordinate's swearing without raising his voice. Somehow that makes it all the more ominous to Laurel; even without yelling, his tone is hard enough to cut through rock. "I hope so. Because if you finish that sentence the way I think you were going to, you won't live to see another one." It would probably be less chilling threat if he'd yelled. His voice is ice—or maybe the calm before the storm.

It must have the same chilling effect on the private because he swallows audibly. "Permission to speak freely, Major?" he offers in a low voice, his tone almost gentle this time.

With a breathy laugh, the major replies, "We're not in the Corps, Roy." Just as quickly as his dark mood came, it seems to have passed, his tone just as free and easy as it had been before. Laurel decides that it was a warning, not a statement made in anger. "You don't have to ask permission to say anything."

"Well, sometimes I feel like I do," Roy retorts as they pull into a private airfield, "especially when it comes to _her_ ." He takes a deep breath, as though mentally preparing himself for what comes next. "What you two do in your spare time has nothing to do with me. If you get off knocking boots with crazy chicks, that's your business. You're both adults, and Digg and I are cool with it." He points at Oliver. "But what I'm _not_ cool with is when you put us in danger because of it."

As the vehicle pulls to a halt, Oliver throws open his door. "I know you don't always agree with my choices," he answers, "but if you can pull off a better plan, you let me know." The teenager remains silent, and Laurel hesitates before throwing open the door. A huge passenger plane sits in front of her, and she glances at it before turning back to the two men. "There's only one pilot in the world who will fly us without taking a cut into our limited funds. If you have any other ideas, I'm open to suggestions."

"Oh, I have suggestions," Roy retorts as he hops out of the van. Despite his protests, he still picks up Laurel's bag and his own and marches toward a plane in the distance. "But none of them are going to change your mind. So I might as well stop arguing."

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day," Oliver remarks as he gathers up two more bags from the back.

Roy drops a bag to respond with a one-fingered salute as his partner starts toward the plane. "I'm actually glad we've got a mission," he grumbles to Laurel as he gathers the duffels again. "He's a mean son of a bitch after he's been cooped up in the van for a few weeks."

Laurel can do nothing but stare for a moment; she thought a team that had worked together for so long would be a well-oiled machine by now. Instead, she's coming to the opinion that the A-Team manages to thrive _in spite_ of the way they get along. "Then why do you stay?"

For the look on his face, she might as well have suggested he go bear hunting with a slingshot. After a moment, he shrugs. "You learn to love him, lady," Roy answers finally. "Sure, he's a pain in the ass, but he's like my _brother_." The first hint of a smile touches one corner of his mouth. "The first time we went on leave, I didn't have anything." He nods toward the plane. "Oliver paid for my plane ticket and let me crash with him. He didn't ask—he just did it and never said anything about it."

Before she can reply, he carries the bags to the plane, throwing them up to Oliver. Laurel means to grab the last duffel, the one printed with various comic book covers. "What are you doing?" Roy yells, causing her to jump. She turns to him with wide eyes. "Don't touch that." He slips the bag from her hands. "I don't want to spend the rest of the trip talking about how someone slipped something into or out of this thing." He throws it over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. "Which is what will happen if anyone else touches it."

"I can't help it if you don't realize the military is trying to track me," a voice answers from behind her. It sounds familiar, but yet she can't quite place it. "They're after you. So of course they'd be tracking your known associates. Which would be _me_."

When Laurel turns, a blonde is staring back at her. It takes her a moment to recognize the pilot without her glasses and with her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She wears a black leather jacket over a navy blue graphic tee. A superhero in red and black is printed on it, wearing a pink tutu and ballet shoes over his costume while firing two automatic weapons. The words that circle it read, _I'm not weird. I'm limited edition._

She's on the arm of a man easily twice her size, but Laurel recognizes him from the picture on Felicity's coffee table. No question that he's the last remaining member of the group, the one Roy called _Digg_. While most of his body weight seems to be made from muscle, he fails to be threatening with that indulgent smile trained on Felicity. "Laurel, this is Sergeant John Diggle, the finest munitions expert you'll ever meet," Felicity introduces. "John, this is Laurel Lance, our client."

Before she can respond, Roy drops her bag and calls, "Long time no see, Batshit."

Felicity pulls out of John's arm immediately, throwing herself at Roy in a hug. Surprisingly, he even returns it, arms weaving around her as though she's a lifeline. "Oh, Roy, I missed you so much!" she declares, pulling back to kiss his cheek.

He turns about the same color as his hoodie before pulling away. He rolls his eyes as he answers, "You just saw me last week." He pokes her in the middle of her forehead. "Must've had one too many shocks to the head, Batshit." Laurel sucks in a breath in surprise, wondering how a member of Felicity's own team could be so cruel. But she rethinks that when he adds in a fragile voice, "Your memory's slipping again."

Felicity huffs. "My memory doesn't like me. It gets mad and won't talk to me. We're fighting right now." She crosses her arms. "And my brain takes sides, too. Right now, it seems to like me best."

A furrow appears between Roy's brows. Maybe, Laurel decides, his words are out of concern instead of malice. "Just as long as you don't forget us again," he mutters to the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Looping her arm through one of his, Felicity assures him with a smile, "I could never forget you, my dear Roy." He doesn't look convinced. "You're practically family." Her eyes go wide, lighting up with a sudden burst of inspiration. "That's it, I've decided! You're my brother now. I've adopted you."

In response, the boy just shakes his head, though his eyes look a little glassy. "Batshit, don't take this the wrong way," he starts with a sniff, "but you're nuttier than squirrel shit." He wipes a sleeve at the corner of his eye.

She winks, that sunny smile never faltering. "It'll be our secret."

"He's a hard one to read, isn't he?" a quiet baritone asks Laurel. She turns to find John Diggle standing beside her, watching the two of them with a knowing smile on his face. "Roy has a good heart, but he doesn't exactly wear it on his sleeve." He nods in the distance. "We might be his family, but Felicity is probably his only friend." John extends a large hand. "Nice to meet you, Laurel. Most people just call me Digg. You can, too, if you like."

Laurel takes it, though her eyebrows shoot up. It's nice to meet a member of the team who is traditionally cordial for a change. "It's great to finally meet you," she answers. "I've been staring at everyone's files on my desk for weeks. It's nice to put faces and names to them."

Digg nods, his expression impassive. "Just as long as you don't believe everything you read," he finally answers.

Before she can ask, Felicity's voice draws her attention. Low and quiet—the way it had been when she told Laurel about Verdant—the captain asks, "How is he?"

Snorting, Roy replies, "His usual charming self." He crosses his arms, his expression softening. "It's… it's been tough. In the last week or so, he's been hard to get along with." His eyes dart toward the plane, his frown deeper this time. "He's not eating again. I don't think he's sleeping, either."

For the first time since Laurel has known her, Felicity scowls. "I'll talk to him," she promises.

"Hey!" Oliver's voice calls across the distance. "Roy, what's taking you so long with that bag?" His head pokes out of the plane. "Double time, Private. Let's—"

His voice cuts off as Felicity turns, that blissful smile returning to her lips again. Oliver is down the stairs and on the ground in a flash, moving to join them. Felicity takes a few steps forward, too, her black jacket rippling slightly in the wind. There's a purple dragon wrapped around a dreamcatcher on the back of it, and Laurel can just make out the set of blue, feathered wings tattooed below her hairline.

While she expects Felicity to say something, to continue chatting at Oliver, she goes quiet. Without warning, she breaks into a run, moving as fast as her pink Converses can carry her. She charges into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and Oliver staggers back with a grunt to keep his balance. His arms wrap around her waist, catching her so that her feet are off the ground.

Oliver smiles into her shoulder, eyes falling shut for a moment. When she hugged Roy, it was friendly, but now Laurel averts her eyes slightly because of the intimacy of their private reunion. A tension she didn't realize was there leaves Oliver's shoulders. His voice is muffled as he breathes into Felicity's shoulder, "I missed you, zoomie."

Her feet touch the ground again, but Felicity doesn't release him. "It's been too long," she declares. "I can't leave you for three weeks—you can't go that long without someone looking after you." She cups his face after pulling away a little. "You look so tired. Maybe you should come visit more often—you always seemed to sleep well at home. I'd even let you have the bed. I'd take the couch."

Threading her arm through his, she bites her bottom lip for a moment. "I know I have Billy," Felicity says suddenly, as though the words are bursting from her, "but I do get lonely sometimes. Cait is nice and all, but it's not the same." She drops her head onto his arm. "There's no replacement for my boys."

While Oliver still manages to smile, it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They droop with the weight of his sadness. "I know," he replies in a low, shaky tone. His lips press together before he adds in a steadier voice, "And I _would_ come see you if we weren't on the run from the military police." His smile turns indulgent, though Laurel has no idea why.

Felicity's brow furrows a moment before she breathes out, " _Oh_." Her eyes widen, as though this is a novel thought and they haven't been on the run for a year. She studies Oliver's expression for a moment before asking slowly, "I should know that, shouldn't I?" He doesn't answer, instead letting her put the pieces together herself with a smile on his face. "That's something big. How did I forget that?"

A light, breathy sound comes from low in Oliver's throat before he answers, "You have intermittent memory loss, Felicity." His tone is even and neutral, as though reminding her.

"Oh, I _always_ forget that," she comments absently, tilting her head up to stare at him. "But I always remember the important things. Like I remember that you make amazing chocolate chip pancakes and that we need to fly to Russia." She hugs him around the middle this time, and Oliver doesn't hesitate to return it. "And I remember how much I miss my boys. All the other things are just details."

Without warning, she pulls Oliver's hat from his head. "And what have I told you about hats, Oliver?" she demands in a huff. "Your face is too pretty to be hidden under a hat." Laurel smiles at her antics as the captain puts the cap on her own head, threading her ponytail through the hole in the back. "And don't tell me it's because you're on the run. That's no excuse." Like the whirlwind she is, Felicity suddenly points behind him. "Is that my plane?"

Nodding once, the major turns, motioning to the plane behind them. "It was the best I could get under short notice," he tells her with a smile, his hand going to the small of her back as he turns her toward it. "Do you think you can fly that?"

In response, Felicity walks up to it slowly. Laurel isn't sure what she's going to do, but then the blonde walks up to it, holding her hands out as if she's about to hug it. Unable to stop herself, Laurel takes steps forward so that she stands even with Oliver. No one has addressed the issue of Felicity's sanity, but the reporter can't help but wonder if their pilot is even competent enough to fly. Tentatively, she asks, "Should Felicity even be flying?"

Genuine confusion flickers across his face as he turns to her, brow furrowing as he frowns. "Well, yeah," he answers, his tone screaming _duh_. "Digg and Roy can't fly. I've taken a few birds up, but always with a licensed pilot and nothing this size. Felicity is the only one of us with that kind of flight experience."

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Laurel blinks several times before opening mouth to try again, but Roy cuts her off. "Lady, you're gonna want to drop this," he warns her in a low voice. "The major doesn't get it."

Deciding that Roy probably knows the team best, she changes tacks, asking Oliver, "Is she going to hug the plane?"

"Probably," he answers, smiling so wide he shows teeth. "She _does_ have a tendency to hug inanimate objects." His smile softens slightly, and Laurel is a little overwhelmed by the pure adoration in it as he watches Felicity babble at the plane. "She sings, too. Only when she's happy, though."

That one Laurel knows about. Nodding, she agrees, "I heard her when we met. Apparently she had a song in her head."

"No, you heard her _humming_ ," Oliver corrects, never taking his eyes off his pilot. "Felicity hums all the time, but she only sings when she's with us." His smile falls a little as he watches her. "Every time she comes with us, she's a little worse than we left her. And when we put her back in the psychiatric ward, she's better than when we pulled her out. I thought her mom would take care of her. Something darkens his expression, flickering through before it clears again. "Maybe we should have taken her with us—at least _we_ would have watched over her." Before Laurel can ask about it, he calls to the blonde, "So do you want to fly it?"

She turns to him, grinning. " _Fly it?_ " Felicity repeats loudly, as though insulted by the idea. "Oliver, I want to _breed_ it with another one and have a bunch of little baby planes. It's _beautiful_." Laurel bites back a smile at her antics as Oliver chuckles; no question that she's the personality on the team. "Maybe I'll just join the Mile High Club in it."

The blonde takes a few steps forward motioning with her hands as she corrects, "Well, renew my membership, anyway." Winking at Laurel, the blonde explains in an aside, "It's kind of a pilot thing. We're not happy unless we're in the air."

Turning back to the major, Felicity asks, "What do you say, Oliver? Do you want to take a ride?" Laurel glances between the two of them, hoping she misread the intent in her tone. Because it _almost_ sounds like… Judging by the way he freezes in place, she's not the only one. Felicity's eyes widen as her cheeks turn pink, and she waves her hands wildly. "On the _plane_ ," she clarifies. "Not me. You'd have to put in more work for that—at least buy a girl a drink first."

Before anyone can recover from her verbal gaffe, tires screech across the pavement, a military vehicle pulling into the lot. "Oh, _that_ was what I was going to tell you," Felicity says suddenly. All three men turn their attention on her. "We have company. I've been monitoring the Colonel's communications. Apparently _someone_ told him you were in Starling. When Laurel used her dad to get my file, One-Eyed Wonder started snooping again. He's getting better at hide-and-seek, don't you think?"

"Who's the Colonel?" Laurel can't help asking.

"File it under 'old business,'" Oliver answers, the good humor vanishing from his face as his brows knit together. "It looks like we've outstayed our welcome in Starling City. Laurel, go with Felicity. She'll get you strapped in, and she may need someone to help her with the gauges since she's never flown a Gulf Stream before." Felicity scoffs. "Roy, grab that bag. You and Digg both need to strap in and hold on." He turns to the blonde, serious now. "Captain, get us ready for wheels up in two."

Felicity salutes him with a smile on her face. "Anything for you, Major," she replies with a salute, her tone part promise and something else entirely. Studying the exchange of glances that follows, Laurel can't help but wonder just what their relationship is.

The blonde pulls on her arm and the two of them make a mad dash toward the plane. Behind her, she hears Oliver call, "Good afternoon, Colonel Wilson! It's been a while." Laurel turns to glance over her shoulder, but Felicity pulls her on before they can hear the response.

The two of them stumble into the plane's cockpit. Laurel drops into the right chair, and then Felicity is over her, fastening her harness before doing the same to her own. With one hand, she flips on the radio, while the other secures the headset, tucking one of the noise-cancelling coverings behind her right ear.

From there, she starts flipping switches that Laurel doesn't understand. "Good afternoon, lady and gentlemen," she starts in a clipped, professional voice, her tone warm and friendly. "This is your captain speaking. I've just turned on the 'no smoking' and 'fasten your seatbelts' sign for taxiing and takeoff. We ask that you please make sure your seats are in the upright position and that your trays are secured in front of you. Please sit back and enjoy your flight." She winks at Laurel. "As always, thank you for flying Miracle Airlines. If you have a great flight, it's a Miracle."

Over her giggling, Roy yells, "Damn it, Batshit! Now's not the time!"

From her seat, Laurel turns just enough to watch Oliver climb the stairs, tapping frame. "Take us up, Captain," he commands in a low voice.

Her answer comes in the form of a salute he can't see and, "Lima charlie!"

Felicity pushes a switch forward, and the engines start to roar. Oliver, however, continues with a formal bow that somehow manages to be insulting instead of polite. "We hate to leave you like this," he yells over the engines, "but on behalf of the team I'd like to tell you one thing." Louder, he calls out, "Alpha mike foxtrot!"

Their pilot flips another switch on the console before cackling again, this time throwing her head back as she does so. "That's not very nice, Major," she says to him as he seals the door.

Before he can answer, she pats the console, cooing at the plane, "Let's see what you can do, baby. Time to test those pretty wings. In a lovely soprano, she starts to sing, " _Starships were meant to flyyyy…_ " As the plane lifts into the air, Oliver releases a startled laugh, grinning from ear to ear as he slides toward the passenger seating. _"Hands up, and touch the skyyy. Can't stop, 'cause we're so hiiiiigh. Let's do this one more time._ " She even does her own background before launching into the next verse.

After she finishes, she assures Laurel, "You're free to walk around, if you want. We're in the air, and I have plenty of voices in my head to keep me company." Felicity taps her (well, Oliver's) hat and winks, and the reporter can't tell if she means it or not. "If you _want_ to talk to me, I'd appreciate it, but I figured after spending so much time finding the A-Team—" She winces, covering her mouth for a moment. "I mean, Task Force Alpha, you might actually want to meet them."

Laurel unfastens her harness before asking, "What Oliver said before… about 'alpha mike foxtrot'…?" she leads in.

Felicity cackles again. "Oliver is usually too nice to say things like that." Waving a hand, the blonde explains, "It's phonetics—you know, how we transmit the alphabet across the radio. Alpha, bravo, charlie, delta… Well, you get the picture." She laughs again. "So it's the initials 'A.M.F.' But the not-nice part is what it stands for. It's a phrase Colonel Wilson said a lot when we worked with him: _adios_ , mother…" She trails off, and after a moment Laurel's eyes widen with recognition. _Oh_.

"And 'lima charlie'?" Laurel asks.

The blonde grins again. "Not as interesting. Phonetics again, but it stands for 'loud and clear.'" She pushes her glasses up on her nose. "I picked it up from Oliver—he used to say it all the time over the radio. Roy prefers the other version, 'lickin' chicken,' but if there's no actual chicken involved, what's the point?"

"I'm going into the passenger area," Laurel warns her, "but if you need to talk to someone, let me know."

Felicity just winks at her. "Trust me, there's a party in my head."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter: 10  
Word Count: 4552**

 **Notes:** Hey, all! Again I'm really excited to be sharing this chapter with you; I think it will answer some more questions you guys have. Actually, I can think of one big one in particular I've heard several times. ;) So I'm really looking forward to seeing what you think about that.

Again, special thanks to Elsie B, my tireless worker who spent overtime on this chapter. :)

As always, reviews are much appreciated, but thank you so much for taking the time to read this!

* * *

 **Chapter 10  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Learned to Understand the Team")**

Shaking her head, Laurel steps back into the luxurious interior, the chairs against the sides. No question that this is a private plane that someone will miss in the morning. Roy hangs off to one side, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet tapping against the floor. Diggle seems more relaxed about the flight, reading a collection of classic short stories. Neither of them, however, compare to Oliver, who sits next to one of the tables, papers and a laptop spread across it.

All three men look up when she enters, and Laurel drops into a chair on the same side as Roy. Her bag is sitting next to it, looking untouched. Still a little concerned by the mental health of her pilot, she asks to no one in particular, "Are you sure Felicity should be flying at all? She said something about hearing voices in her head, and I know she hallucinates…" She trails off, waiting for a response.

"Hell no, she shouldn't," Roy grumbles under his breath. "She's crazy."

Ignoring him, Oliver answers, "Felicity is diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic with intermittent memory loss." He doesn't even bother to look at Laurel, his attention still on his papers and laptop. The words roll off his tongue as easily as if he was a medical professional. "She doesn't have delusions—she just hallucinates things. Sometimes she talks to inanimate objects, too." Flipping the pen in his hand, he turns to her with a slight smile. "But she doesn't hear voices in her head—that's just her idea of a joke."

Uncertain now, Laurel asks, "She really has mental health issues?" All three men turn to her with blank expressions, as though she's asking them if the sky is blue. Hesitating, she admits, "I finally managed to get the court records from her trial. I saw that she was exonerated was by reason of insanity."

The reporter presses her lips together for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. "Her file mentioned she'd had psychological evaluations when she was still in the service, before she was committed." Oliver actually flinches at the word. "If they were… questionable, Felicity could have used them to her advantage." She waves to the group. "You three are on the run from your own government, but she's relatively free to do as she wants. And she doesn't have to pay her living expenses." No one seems offended, so she asks again, "So is she really insane?"

The three men exchange glances before Oliver finally replies, " _We_ think so." He lifts a shoulder. "I know what Caitlin told me." When Laurel's brow knits together, he explains, "Before the court martial, Felicity had authorized her doctors to talk to me about her healthcare information." She blinks, unsure how to interpret that information. "Caitlin—Dr. Snow—was convinced she needed help."

He swallows, his features suddenly becoming stoic, as if he's slipped on a mask. "And she hates it there. She didn't even want to go, but I convinced her. _I_ was the one who made her stay." As he presses his lips together for a moment, Laurel wonders just how much he kicks himself for that decision. "Felicity needs stability. I—We can't give her that."

His eyes flick toward the cockpit, his face softening for a moment. "For the first two months after the court martial," he adds slowly, quietly, "we didn't break her out. We left her there, and I talked to her on a secure line every day." Oliver finds something fascinating about the carpet below his feet, studying it as he confesses to Laurel, "She… she was getting worse. Sometimes she couldn't remember our names, and she started lashing out at the staff."

The major's voice becomes strangled at the admission, and he has to stop to clear his throat. "We worked together for two years in Iraq. For two years, the four of us slept in the same quarters together, ate our meals together, fought together— _depended_ on each other."

He looks up at Laurel, a new, fierce glint in his eyes. "We're a family— _more_ than that. Family is just genetics. When you know someone would give their life to save yours, it creates _trust_." Oliver runs a hand over his face. "Watching Felicity spiral like that… it nearly killed us. I… _We_ couldn't watch her do that. So I conned her out of the hospital for two weeks, scammed her a helicopter." A sad smile crosses his lips. "She was back to normal— _her_ normal—in a few days." He looks to the two other men on his team. "That's when we started taking her with us when we were hired for a job."

The room lapses into quiet, and Laurel realizes that Felicity isn't the only one who has suffered in the last year. Though she doesn't understand why, anyone can see that he's torturing himself over it. God only knows what he survived after eight years in the military, but yet his pilot's mental health seems to be the thing that destroys him. Because it seems unfair to let him silently kick himself over it, Laurel goes with the first safe topic she recalls from his words. "What… what happened to Felicity?" she asks in a quiet tone.

"Same thing that eventually happens to everyone who fights in a war long enough," Diggle answers, closing his book. "She took a hit. I didn't know her back then and she doesn't really remember, but from what I heard, she got shot down over Kandahar three years ago. Gave her brain damage." He shakes his head sadly. "Made it through without PTSD, unlike most of us"—he cuts his eyes not-so-subtly at Oliver—"but the explosion screwed up her head."

"Captain Crazy has been knitting with only one needle since it happened," Roy interjects, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "By the time she signed up for the team, her psych evals were already going to hell. When she was a spark chaser, the rest of the crew used to call her Batshit Smoak." A soft, fond smile turns the corners of his mouth up. "And I think she kind of likes it—signed last my birthday card as 'B.S. Smoak.'"

Laurel opens her mouth to ask the next question, but singing stops her. Felicity exits the cockpit, throwing her jacket off to one side as she sings a pop song about being happy. Laurel can do little more than stare at her, and the three men just watch the blonde as she dances toward the back of the plane. Finally, Diggle and Roy turn their attention on Oliver, as if waiting for him to act.

Swiveling the chair to follow her, the major calls out in a calm, gentle tone, "Felicity, honey, what are you doing?" The soft nickname sounds odd in comparison to his usual stiff demeanor, and, for not the first time, Laurel wonders if they might be something more than members of the same team. Then she wonders if that's a mystery she'll ever be able to solve.

Something in his tone makes the blonde falter, too. She turns on her heel, smile never wavering. "I'm going to get the on-board wi-fi going," she explains, as though it's the simplest thing in the world. "I didn't get a chance before Colonel Wilson showed up and started being his usual charming self." Laurel doesn't see anything of interest in Oliver's expression, but Felicity's smile fades a little. "Why?"

With a level of calm Laurel herself couldn't manage, he asks, "Aren't you supposed to be flying the plane?" No unease touches his voice, asking her the question as though he's inquiring about the weather.

Her brow furrows for a moment, and when her confusion clears, she snaps her fingers. "I _knew_ I was forgetting something," Felicity mutters to herself. She smiles again, walking up to Oliver and slipping her turquoise fingernails into his hand. His fingers grip hers immediately. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Oliver," she says, gratitude seeping into every word. "You're the only one who makes sense of things when the purple wobblies start to wobble." The blonde leans down to kiss his cheek, one foot going up in the air as she does so.

With that, she totters off, back to the cockpit. Trying to make sense of it, Laurel turns to glance at each one of them in turn. Roy only rolls his eyes, but Diggle just shakes his head with a small smile before turning back to his book. The apples of Oliver's cheeks redden as he goes back to his work, but it manages to put a smile on his face.

Sensing her confusion, the private just lifts a shoulder and offers in explanation, "Batshit Smoak, lady." He leans back again, closing his eyes. "She's one accordion short of a polka band, but you get used to it after a while." Roy shakes his head. "It used to freak me out when she did shit like that, but walking away from the controls isn't the kind of stunt that bothers me now. Not after the helo."

Crossing his arms, he continues, "When she rolled that bird in Iraq, I panicked and yelled at her. The smile just fell off her face and she went really quiet." He actually looks sad just thinking about it. "It was like kicking a puppy. I felt like a prize ass."

"You wouldn't win any prizes," Oliver interjects.

Roy ignores him, though he waves a hand at the major, eyes opening as he raises his head again. "We thought I'd hurt her feelings. As soon as I stepped off that bird, the major started screaming at me." He grins at the memory, though Laurel thinks it was probably anything _but_ funny at the time. "I thought I was going to be the only person to ever survive a near-death experience in the air, only to be killed later by a pissed-off passenger.

"And just when I thought that was the end of it," he adds with a laugh, "Felicity powers the helo down, storms up, and chews my ass _again_." Roy shakes his head. "Turns out she was just as pissed about me yelling at her, but she had to focus on flying. She wasn't my CO, so I argued back and called her a crazy bitch." He winces. "She doesn't like that word."

"And she punched you in the face because you deserved it," Diggle finishes, a smile on his lips. "His eye was swollen shut for _days_." To Laurel, he adds, "It's in our nature to be protective of Felicity. She's a woman in a world that isn't always kind to women. On top of that, her mental instability always made her an easy target." He huffs a silent laugh. "But in a lot of ways, she's stronger than the rest of us. I think we sometimes forget that the only person on this team who outranks her is Oliver—he's an O-4, but she's an O-3. It didn't matter to us that her psych evals were borderline. She's one of us—and we take care of our own."

Dropping his pen and turning to face them, Oliver corrects, "Her psychological evaluations weren't just borderline." Laurel's brow furrows at the implication, and he clarifies, "I saw her records myself. She failed them, but the Air Force kept it quiet. Felicity's a genius, and they needed minds like hers. So they altered the numbers a little."

Her mind reeling, she voices the first thought that comes to mind: "And you were okay with that? They knew your pilot was insane, and they assigned her to you, anyway?"

Roy snorts at that, and Diggle just smiles before turning back to his book. Even Oliver seems to have a half-smile on his face. Meeting Laurel's eyes, he answers in a firm tone, "They didn't assign her to us."

Before she can do more than furrow her brow, he continues, "While I was in active combat, I was selected for a few ARGUS special operations. So when they pitched the idea of Task Force Alpha to my CO, he thought I'd be a natural fit to lead it." While most would be proud of that, there's no hint of ego to his tone. "ARGUS allowed me special access to Pentagon files—I had files on everyone in active service, all five branches of the military." He crosses his arms. "I knew I'd need a mechanic, a weapons expert, and a pilot. I handpicked this team myself." Only then does the pride come out in his voice. "Including Felicity."

"But you saw the records yourself," Laurel notes, her brow furrowing slightly. "You _knew_ that she was insane, and you picked her anyway?" Though she has no right to say so, she can't help but think that he might be a little insane himself for picking her.

In dismissal, Oliver shrugs a shoulder. "Felicity Smoak is the best pilot the Air Force has ever trained," he states flatly, with no room in his tone for argument. "Even nearsighted, forgetful, and hallucinating, there's no one else I'd rather have behind the controls."

There's a warning in his tone this time, a closing of the subject. It's clear he's said as much as he's going to, and the last thing Laurel wants to do is provoke him. Instead, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her laptop. She has a few articles to write anyway and…

The thought hits her again, one that she's been trying to ignore for some time. But the reporter in her can't resist the opportunity to ask, "I know I hired you to find Iris, but…" She smiles as her brain starts running through all the possibilities. "I think you three would make a good story. Betrayed by your own government, without a country, and yet you survive by helping others." Slowly she decides, "I could do an article—maybe even a series about the three of you. Would that be okay?"

Both Roy and Diggle turn to the major immediately, as though turning the choice over to him. "All publicity is good publicity," Oliver states, never looking up from his work. "We could use some notoriety—it might help us if we can earn public favor." He turns to her. "There are three conditions." Laurel leans forward, waiting for them. "We get final approval before you go to print on us." He says it quickly, almost as if it's an afterthought. "And you have to ask Felicity separately, if you choose to interview her. Even if she says yes, you have to make it seem like you interviewed her about her work with us in the military, not for what she's done with us since." Wiping his hands on his jeans, he finishes, "You can't incriminate her in any way—that's non-negotiable. She needs help, and she can't get that if she's on the run with us."

"Deal," she answers. Laurel knows when she can't negotiate, and she has a feeling that Oliver isn't going to let her argue this. Instead, she pulls her digital recorder out of her bag, turning it on. "I guess we'll start at the beginning—where do you three call home? Do you have any family?"

The room is silent for a long moment, and she thinks it's interesting how willing they are to talk about their pilot, yet grow quiet the moment the spotlight is trained on them. The private is the first one to respond, lifting his head from the back of the seat with a dark expression. "Why do you think I went military in the first place?" he answers in a hard tone. "My parents are dead, and they didn't give a damn when they _were_ alive."

Diggle looks equally grim as he answers, "I buried both of my parents before I went to war. My brother died on the battlefield before I threw in with these two. Married one hell of a woman, but divorced her because of my own problems." He levels a steady look at Laurel. "My family is right here."

Laurel thinks she'll have to coax an answer out of Oliver, but he finally fills the silence by answering with a wry smile, "I'm just another Hollywood Marine with authority issues." Both Roy and Diggle snort at that in the background. "The most interesting thing about me is that I'm a mustang—I started out at the bottom of the ranks, just like Roy."

She isn't going to let him off that easy. Leaning forward, the reporter insists, "Oh, come on, Oliver. There has to be more to it than that." Placing her elbows on her knees, she continues, "You have to give me at least _something_ to work with."

His hesitance is palpable, shutting down almost immediately. It's a long moment before he answers, but then he asks in a low tone, "You live in Starling City, right?" She nods once, and even though he's now focused on his papers again, he continues, "Then you know more than you probably realize. There are four streets in Starling with the name 'Queen' in them—East and West Queen Boulevards, Queen Technology Drive, and the Robert Queen Memorial Parkway. All of them are named after my family. My grandfather started the company that's Queen Consolidated today, and my father was Robert Queen—the same one from the parkway."

The information takes her by surprise; back when he was just a name on a file, she had tried to dig further into his identity. While _the_ Oliver Queen had come to mind, there were about a thousand other Oliver Queens. With his personal information redacted and no photograph, her research was limited—as it was with everyone else on the team.

She frowns a little as she studies him now, trying to reconcile the Oliver Queen in front of her with the one she knew from the papers all those years ago. She remembers seeing pictures of a pompous, rich brat with blond hair splashed across the tabloids, with stories of drunken benders and drug use all over the headlines. Now that she knows the truth, she can see it, but she doubts anyone on the street would mistake this war-hardened, sharp-eyed Marine from the infamous, womanizing playboy he used to be.

"You're _that_ Oliver Queen," she finally answers.

He nods once, slowly. "There isn't much to tell that you don't already know," he continues. "My dad died when his yacht went down on the way to China." He seems about as attached to the memory as he would be to the weather. "My mother runs Queen Consolidated, and she's married to one of my father's two best friends." His expression darkens at that, but it clears just as quickly as it sets in. "Losing my father nearly killed her. And it almost killed my sister, too, when the heist happened." Laurel frowns; she doesn't remember anything about a sister in the news. "They're both in Starling, but I can't risk seeing them."

It's obvious to her that his mentions of his mother are few for a reason, and she knows better than to try and push him for now. Oliver Queen apparently likes his secrets. "Okay," she says slowly. "How did you three end up in the military? There has to be a story there."

It's no surprise that the boy in the red hoodie speaks first again. His lips quirk up in a hint of ironic humor, crossing his arms over his chest. "It was either this or go to jail for stealing shit," he deadpans. At first she thinks he's talking about the team's current predicament, but then Roy allows, "Not much has changed since." All three of them laugh at that.

"Family tradition," Digg answers without looking up from his book. "My father served, like his father before him. Never really considered much else. I was always going to join the Army."

Laurel's eyes turn to Oliver, surprised to find him staring back at her. "I was looking for the fastest way out of my parents' control," he answers, his tone betraying no emotion. "The Marine Corps offered it." He shrugs. "I re-upped and was a year in when everything went to hell. We were ordered to steal that cash, and the man who ordered it got taken out by an IED. No one believed us."

Taking the opportunity afforded to her, Laurel launches in again. "That's probably the thing readers will want to know most," she decides after a moment. "Last year, the three of you stole the equivalent of one-point-five _billion_ US dollars from the Central Bank of Iraq." Unable to help herself, she leans on her elbows. "You three claim that you were under orders to do so, but there's one thing I'd like to know: How _did_ you do it?"

She waits for an answer from any one of them, and finally Roy obliges. "Digg and I just did our jobs, lady," he answers, rolling his eyes. "The plans are Oliver's thing. Wouldn't expect it by looking at him, but the major actually has a brain in that head of his." Oliver pretends to ignore him, but the corners of his mouth quirk up in a small smile. "It surprised me, too, but the only person who ever stood a chance against him in a game of chess was…" He trails off before winking at her. "What was the name of that pilot who flew us in Iraq? The crazy one with the genius IQ?"

"Smoak," John offers with a partial smile, playing along. "Captain Smoak."

"Yeah, Batshit Smoak," Roy adds, as though being reminded. It's a game to them in a way, Laurel supposes, in addition to being a way to protect their own. "But even she stopped playing chess with him after a while—he pissed her off. He either won or surrendered."

"I don't understand," Laurel hedges. "Even if you surrendered, it still means you lost. Your pilot still won."

"No, she didn't—not the way she wanted," Oliver answers. "I _surrendered_. It's different. Anyone can _win_ —winning is easy." He crosses his arms after throwing his pen to the side. "But losing… losing is being overwhelmed by your enemy's might. S _urrender_ is something else entirely. Surrender is admitting that you don't have the circumstances you need to win. It's making a tactical retreat. I might lose, but I lose on _my_ terms.

"That's the difference in having a plan and an idea," he continues. "Most people think that's being one step ahead of your opponent. But that's just an _idea_. A _real_ plan is being two or three moves ahead of your opponent." The look Oliver throws her is pure confidence; he isn't trying to brag, but simply self-aware. The man before her knows precisely what he's capable of, and he isn't selling it as anything less than it is. "That's what I do for this team. I anticipate and counter our opponents' moves before even _they_ know they're going to make them."

Frustration washes over his features for a moment. "I don't know what you've heard about our heist, Miss Lance, but that story gets exaggerated a little more every year." Oliver grins, flashing her a smile that promises a thousand things at once—and none of them good. She has no doubt that _this_ is the man that could con someone out of a private jet. "We didn't rob the _bank_ —that's one of the most well-protected banks in Iraq. And as foreigners in Baghdad? I'm not in the habit of sending my men to their deaths."

"Then how did you do it?" Laurel can't help but ask. She hasn't really thought about it beyond what was on her files before this moment, but now she's curious how the hell he could have pulled off something this big with two men. "How did you take one-point-five billion dollars out of Baghdad?"

Something enters his eyes that she doesn't expect—cold and calculating, as if he's working out a giant crossword puzzle in his head. "They were moving the money to a different location for safekeeping until it could be distributed," he answers with a hint of irony in his voice. "There was no way we could have robbed the bank, so we robbed the transport instead."

He leans forward, mirroring her position by resting his elbows on his knees. Except, when _he_ does it, the gesture is almost intimidating somehow. "It was a coordinated attack," Oliver explains. "They had two lead cars and two follows. The money was carried in a shipping container on the back of a semi. Roy built a high-powered magnet. Digg used it to attach himself to the bottom of the truck and took out the first follow from behind. Roy came in on a bike, sliding onto the side. The bike crashed and exploded the second follow car.

"From there, Roy entered the container with a homemade hydraulic punch and a drill so he could attach the clamps to the top. Diggle made it to the top of the container and returned fire." Oliver throws her a slight smirk. "I joined them by using a specially designed grappling arrow and took care of the leads while they finished up." At her confusion, he clarifies, "I've always liked using a bow—archery is about control and precision. Planning."

Continuing his story, he says with a glint in his eyes, "Felicity—Captain Smoak—brought in the helo with a set of cables, and Digg and I hooked the clamps on the container to them. She flew it out of the city with Digg and me on top." He grins. "And a very pissed-off Roy inside the container."

Rising to the bait, the twenty-year-old remarks, "I told you, I don't fly with her. There's a reason they called her Batshit Smoak, Major. She nearly killed you with that barrel roll stunt in Afghanistan. And do you even _remember_ that stunt she pulled in…?"

He trails off before turning to Laurel. "Well, it's classified, but we were in an aerial chase in a helo, and they fired heat seekers at us. So because Captain Crazy is a few clowns short of a circus, she shuts the damn thing off. _In flight_. Thirty thousand feet in the air, and she just goes cold." He crosses his arms. "And _that's_ why I was pissed—I _told_ Oliver I couldn't fly with her after that time she shut the helo off mid-flight. So he shoves me in the damn container where I can't do anything about it." He huffs. "To make matters worse, the whole damn thing is filled with money, giving me maybe three feet of crawlspace at the top."

Ignoring him, the major continues, "The number gets exaggerated every year, too." He leans back in his chair, shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as if he's starting to relax a little around Laurel. Picking up the nearest notebook on the table, he allows, "It wasn't one-point-five billion—it was one-point- _two_ billion."

He looks up, offering her that lopsided, dimpled smile. "And a set of printing plates."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter: 11  
Word Count: 2873**

* * *

 **Chapter 11  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Played Poker with the Boys")**

Launching into her last set of questions, Laurel asks the team one she's wanted to know since the beginning. It didn't feel like an opening inquiry, but now the boys are starting to warm up to her—with the exception of a very guarded Oliver. Still, it's the last one she has in her arsenal right now, and Roy and Diggle are starting to relax.

"Do any of you have families of your own?" she asks. "Significant others? Spouses? Children?" There's a long pause in the room. "If so, how do they handle the three of you being away from home?"

Oliver's shoulders tense a moment before he crosses his arms over his chest. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Laurel remembers her dad's stories about defensive postures in interrogation. Crossing your arms over your chest means you want to put distance between the two of you, she remembers him saying. "I need to run some flight patterns by Felicity," he declares abruptly before rising from his chair in a smooth motion. "If you need me, gentlemen, I'll be in the cockpit." Before she can protest, he's gone.

"Was it something I said?" she asks, turning to the other two soldiers as she clicks off her recorder.

Roy snorts. "Oliver's weird about relationships," he answers after a long moment. "But to answer your question, all we have is right here, lady." He motions toward a bag in the corner she hadn't noticed before. "Guns, clothes, and each other." He shrugs. "What else could we need?"

Because that doesn't really answer her question, Laurel tries again, "So… no relationships within the unit?"

"I'm into girls, and Batshit is like my sister," Roy answers without missing a beat.

"She's asking about Oliver and Felicity, you dolt," Diggle remarks. When Laurel glances to him, he's still reading his collection of short stories. From this angle, she can see the page he's on, and she isn't surprised to see it sounds like a wartime tale. "Whatever you want to know, the answer is no, Laurel. I am not nearly bored enough that I want to sit here and discuss whatever those two have or don't have."

Roy rolls his eyes. "Digg has infinite patience—except when it comes to watching our fearless leader and dear old Batty make gooey eyes at one another." He moves from the chair to his bag as he adds, "But if you're looking for a scoop, you're not going to find it. Oliver and Batshit aren't romantic." He pulls a pack of cards from the bag before turning to one of the nearby tables, motioning for Laurel to a seating area of four chairs around a table. "Oliver doesn't do relationships."

"What do you mean?" she asks as he starts shuffling the deck.

As he starts setting up the table for a round of solitaire, it's Digg who answers, "It probably hasn't escaped your notice that our boy is a control freak." Laurel snorts; no, it definitely has not. "He's the same way when it comes to personal aspects of his life. Has rules for that, too." He motions to Roy. "And don't play for stakes. He cheats."

Ignoring him, Roy continues, "No romance, no commitments, no COs, no subordinates." He turns over the first card, an ace of spades. He promptly puts it on the pile before glancing up at Laurel. For the first time, she notices the darkness under his eyes and the way his face seems… gaunt under the better lighting. It claws at her heart a little; he's too young to seem so weary. "He doesn't break those for anyone."

To Digg, he calls out, "Remember when he was bumping uglies with Lieutenant Hawke? When she was under his command, he ended things." He turns back to Laurel as he flips another card. "No way would he have made a pass at Felicity in Iraq. Not when he was responsible for her safety."

"And now?" is her reply. "Anyone can see they have… something."

Digg sighs. "That boy loves her so much he can't see straight," he answers, using the same tone she might if she told someone the sky was blue. Around the edges, though, is an underlying hint of frustration. "Felicity's a hard read, though—she's almost too open with her feelings. She's treated all of us like this since day one." He shakes his head. "And who the hell knows what's happening in that head of hers. Most of the time, that girl doesn't even know what day it is."

With a huff of laughter, Roy interjects, "It used to freak him out how touchy she is. The major likes his personal space. But you see how Felicity is—not much chance of personal space when she's around." He shrugs as he moves another card to a run. "Now it freaks him out when she isn't all over his boundaries."

Resting an elbow on the table, Laurel states, "Sounds like they're making something complicated that really shouldn't be."

Digg snorts, but at least he's smiling this time. "That's what I've been saying as I've been watching this shit unfold for the last three years," he replies flatly. "I think the idea of a romantic relationship kind of wigs Oliver out. His experiences lean toward the physical, but Felicity's a candlelight-and-romance kind of woman. She's not interested in casual sex, and Oliver respects her too much to ask her for it anyway. He isn't exactly good at romance."

Roy flips a card over in the draw pile before continuing, "And don't forget the complication of the whole psych ward thing. We go for weeks at a time without seeing her, and long-distance relationships have got to be tough when your girlfriend can't remember your name."

"That was one time, Roy," Diggle interjects. "Let it go, man."

"Which reminds me," Roy continues as if he hasn't spoken, "that we need to draw straws to see who takes Felicity back to the ward this time."

"You cheat at all conceivable methods of random chance," Diggle answers, turning to face him. "I did it last time, Roy. This one is on you." Roy opens his mouth, but the older man holds up a hand. "And there is nothing you can do to convince me to take your turn."

Laurel looks between them, brow knitting together. "You two take turns escorting Felicity home?"

Sending her a sharp glare from over the top of his book, Diggle says, "That box is not her home, Laurel. Oliver only called it that to help her adjust to it." He slips a bookmark in place. "We may have escaped a jail sentence, but Felicity is the one who's serving time. Her home is with us."

"And taking her back to that cage is pure hell," Roy adds, running a hand down his face. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Laurel remembers he's only twenty-one. Right now, he seems so much older than that—maybe because he found himself in some serious trouble. "Batshit hates that place. She cries." Those two words somehow fill volumes as sadness etches itself into the lines on his face. "We don't let Oliver escort her back anymore. It kills him. He's not right for weeks after that."

"Doesn't do either of us much good, either," Digg adds.

As Roy stares down at the table, Laurel places his red jack on a black queen. "Why do you take her back, then?" she asks. "Surely she'd be happier with the three of you." That much is clear; the Felicity she met in the hospital seemed to have something missing from her life, but the Felicity she met today is much happier and brighter.

Diggle moves to the table with them after stopping by his bag, motioning for Roy to slide into the seat closer to the window. He complies with a glare at his partner. With a quirked eyebrow as he sits down, Digg asks Laurel, "Do you know how to play Texas Hold 'Em?" She nods once, and he nudges his fellow soldier. He drops a bag of hard candy on the table, distributing a few pieces to each of them before saying, "Deal us in, card shark." With a grin, the younger man gathers the cards of his solitaire game.

As Roy shuffles, Digg finally answers her question. "Felicity doesn't like to admit it, but…" He sighs. "What we do—living out of the van and our go-bags—is hard on her. The reason she held on in Iraq was because every night was the same. Come back to base, sleep in a tent, fly a plane. It was structured. She had a role to play, and she played it well." He shakes his head. "But this hopping all over the world and never knowing what we're going to do next? It screws with her head. The last time we took her with us, she had nearly made it to Australia before someone reminded her we were supposed to be headed to Colombia."

"And Cait is good for her," Roy adds as he deals the first hand. "She understands that Felicity won't take meds and she uses a lot of therapy instead." Laurel glances down at her cards, fighting the urge to frown. Roy isn't so stoic, but John's poker face is the stuff of legend. "She's trying to get her to recognize the difference between her hallucinations and reality." He rolls his eyes. "But Batshit loves that damn dog. It isn't real, but she loves it all the same." He shoves two pieces of candy toward the middle of the table. "I'll start us at two."

"Call," Laurel answers, throwing two pieces in the middle to match him. "Well, Billy might not be real, but he's part of her reality," she corrects. "If there's something I've learned in my business, it's that perception drives reality. And Felicity sees Billy—whether he's there or not."

Digg snorts before throwing in four pieces of candy. When Laurel's brow furrows, he shrugs. "It's only candy." Checking his cards again, he replies, "And now you're starting to sound like Oliver. He thinks we should be supportive and let her have her own reality, but it gets a little complicated. Last time she nearly killed us all trying to dodge a dragon."

As Roy deals the first three cards in the flop, he asks, "So, Vicki Vale, how did you end up as a reporter?"

"What did you just call me?" is all she can manage to ask. She studies the cards on the table: three of hearts, four of diamonds, six of spades. None of them do her any good.

"Vicki Vale," he repeats, shrugging one shoulder. "She's the reporter that follows Batman. Read a comic book sometime." Diggle snorts, but Roy elbows him in the arm, motioning between the two of them with his other hand. "Seemed appropriate, since you've been following us."

Before he can pull his elbow out of Diggle's side, the sergeant catches Roy's arm. He pulls a card from his sleeve—the ace of hearts—and makes a discard pile with it. "You and your comic books," Digg says with a roll of his eyes. Releasing Roy's arm, Digg reaches over and throws his fellow soldier's cards in the discard pile. It sparks a cry of protest, and he simply answers, "You know the rules, man. You cheat, you fold."

"If you catch me cheating, I have to fold," Roy corrects, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "But since you only catch me about one time in ten, it's worth it. If Oliver isn't in the room, anyway." He turns his attention to Laurel. "Question still stands, though. How does a lady like you end up as a reporter? Let me guess: lifelong dream."

As Diggle drops three pieces of candy on the growing pile, Laurel answers, "I never thought about it as a kid." She drops five pieces of candy into the pile, cutting her eyes at Diggle. His brow furrows; suddenly he doesn't seem so confident about his hand. "I always wanted to be a detective, like my dad."

"I knew there was a reason I didn't trust you," Roy interjects.

Ignoring him, she continues, "But Dad wouldn't let us. He works Major Crimes and he sees the worst of the world every day. He didn't want that for my sister and me." When Digg drops another five pieces of candy on the table, Laurel drops six with a smile in his direction. "But I loved the law, so I decided to go to law school."

"There's another reason not to trust her," Diggle adds with a grin.

Roy stops sulking long enough to play the turn card: ace of diamonds. Still nothing that will help her. She places eight more pieces of candy in the pot. "And I did. I scored high on my LSATs and I was accepted into the three law programs I applied for." This time Diggle only drops two pieces of hard candy. Good; she's shaken his confidence. "So I went, and I finished a semester. I spent four months in law school, and it felt like four months in prison." There are ten more pieces of candy in her stack, and she places nine more in the pot. "So I signed up for a journalism program and never looked back."

Laughing, she adds, "My sister is the black sheep of the family. When she signed up for the police academy, Dad threw a fit. Next thing I know, she's at Parris Island, in a Marine Corps boot camp." Laurel shakes her head. "Now she's on a bomb disposal unit. I think Dad wishes she had been a cop instead. But that's Sara—defiant to the very end."

"Sara's a good Marine," Roy says suddenly, as Digg studies his cards again. "I never met her because that was back before I threw in with these guys, but they tell stories about Bombshell Barbie." When Laurel opens her mouth to ask, he answers the unspoken question. "She's hot, she's blonde, and she's a bomb tech. The guys with the nicknames were never that original." His expression darkens with those words, at something she doesn't quite understand. "They say she's fearless. No wonder why Oliver loves her."

Laurel's eyes widen. "Not in a romantic way," Roy allows, making a face. "There are only a few people in the world that he really cares about, and Sara is one of them." He thinks about that for a moment. "I think the whole list is pretty much Thea, Batty, and Sara. In that order."

"Thea?" Laurel asks. "The Thea I met with?"

"The one and only," Diggle answers, brow furrowing as he twists a piece of the hard candy around in his hand. "She's his kid sister." He moves to put the piece in the pot, but then he snatches his hand back at the last minute. When he looks up at Laurel, she throws him a smile.

"Half-sister," Roy corrects, rolling his eyes. To Laurel, he adds, "When his dad died, Oliver was seven or eight. It's why he doesn't talk about his dad—he doesn't really remember him. You know the bartender from Verdant, Tommy?" Laurel nods; she isn't likely to forget the devilishly charming bartender. "He's a Merlyn." It takes her a moment to recognize the name; the Merlyn Export Company was part of the reason Starling City was even founded. "And the Merlyns and the Queens have always been close. Well, Malcolm Merlyn and Moira Queen were really close. And now Tommy and Oliver share a half-sister."

He turns to the sergeant. "Are you gonna bet or what, man? Stop dicking around and hold or fold."

Digg shakes his head for a long moment before throwing his cards in, face up. A three of clubs and a queen of spades. "Fold," he finally decides. "I'm not gonna try to take this hand with a pair of threes."

Before claiming her prize of forty-six pieces, Laurel tosses her hand into the middle: a seven of clubs and a two of spades. She never thought it would work, but maybe her friend Ted was right when he taught her how to play. You have an advantage, he had said. You're a woman. So don't play poker like you're a man—play like a woman. You'll be underestimated because of your gender. So let them. Bet big. Give tells that let them think you have a good hand. Let them underestimate you, and then prove them wrong. Maybe her favorite informant knows more than she thought.

The mechanic releases a low whistle as Digg shakes his head with a frown. "I'll say this, Vicky," Roy starts slowly. "You've got balls. You'd have to be crazier than Batshit to bluff your way through a round with the worst hand in Texas Hold 'Em." Something between grudging respect and admiration wars in his tone, along with his normal disdain. "Maybe you're not as much of a goody two-shoes"—he throws the words around as though it's an insult—"as I originally thought." He turns to his partner. "What do you think?"

"Oh, we're keeping her," Digg agrees. "Oliver just doesn't know it yet."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter: 12  
Word Count: 3592**

 **Notes:** I know I've been behind in answering reviews. It's been a long week in the world of vet med; I've fallen asleep at least twice trying to complete my daily Duolingo goal this week. :P I'll be trying to catch up later today.

I'm really excited about sharing this chapter; it's probably my favorite so far. ;)

Before I forget **there will not be an update next week.** I will be out of town for the weekend. I'm behind writing a few chapters, so this will also give me time to catch up. :)

As always, thank you so much for reading! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 12  
(Or: "That Time Felicity and Oliver Flew a Plane Together")**

If there's one thing Felicity misses at her new home, it's all the little doodads and gauges that surround her when she's at the controls of a plane. She pulls her hat off her head and places it on a doodad she doesn't need right now, beaming when she adjusts it just right. That little piece makes it feel more home-y and familiar, like her fighter jet. That was a long time ago, but she's always loved to fly. And a bird should feel like home, with all the time she spends in them.

Sometimes she thinks there was a mistake made in the womb because she _should_ have born with wings. (But, then again, she _read_ that book and it didn't work out too well for _those_ kids.) It might not be as good as actual wings, but at least she has a plane—and one with a really damn good radio, too. The songs it plays are _awesome_ —she knows all the words and everything.

She's singing along to it several hours into the flight when she senses him more than hears him. A part of her has become attuned to her boys in the last two years, and even after the time she spends away, Felicity's Boy Senses still tingle when they approach. It could be any of the three, but she knows by his general sense of quiet who is coming up beside her. Without thinking, she reaches out to him, her hand falling on the bony ridges of his ribs.

Felicity is tactile. She knows that. Touching things is something she does to satisfy her own curiosity because things feel _different_. Billy doesn't really feel like anything; he's cute and happy, but she has to keep her eyes on him to know he's even there.

A lot of things feel like that—Billy, her cats, even that goldfish she had when she first moved into the loony bin. (Sadly, Gary didn't respond well to their new environment—she cried when she had to clean the empty bowl out.) But while some things are… _feeling-less_ , her boys are something other. They're muscle-y to the touch and warm in a way that's blissfully alive and unapologetic about it.

Of her boys, though, Oliver is the one who is always different because he's not just _one_ thing. Roy is all hard angles and bony hugs, while John is all muscles—much softer and less pokey by comparison. But Oliver… Oliver is _both_ , soft and hard (not like that) at the same time. (Which, Felicity has decided, is what makes him capable of the best hugs _ever_.)

A lot of people don't like the way she tests things by touching them. They can't see things like Billy or her pretty red macaw (his name is Shirley), so they call her crazy. (Felicity doesn't mind, though; they usually don't mean it in a bad way.) Oliver doesn't. He's careful about what he says to her— _home_ instead of _psych ward_ , _Caitlin_ instead of _Dr. Snow_ , _talking_ instead of _therapy_. He even asks about Billy and had Roy bring by a really expensive flea collar for him.

Most importantly, he doesn't mind her touches.

As if in response to her thought (though he can't read her mind—believing that _would_ make her crazy), he places his hand over hers. Though he guides hers back to the controls, he drops his hand on her shoulder, still maintaining contact with her but understanding that Felicity needs both her hands to fly properly. (She had kind of forgotten that herself. Oliver does that to her sometimes—makes her forget things she knows are important.) He slips off the right section of her headset before saying in that quiet, gravelly way, "Hey." It makes her smile and, like always, he smiles right back. "How are you doing up here?"

Felicity rolls her shoulders, working out the stiffness settling in after so long flying. She didn't even realize it had been that long. "Been sitting for a while," she answers, swinging her arm to stretch and smacking him by accident. Though the pilot means to apologize, Oliver responds with a breathy laugh, letting her know she's forgiven. "I'm a little sore, but I'll live."

Oliver's other hand goes to her shoulder, his thumbs rubbing the sore spot at the back of her neck. "Your hands are amazing," Felicity declares, causing said amazing hands to still a little. As it dawns on her what she said, the pilot bites down on her lip, looking heavenward for strength. "On my shoulders," she adds a moment too late. "I meant on my shoulders. Nowhere else."

Another low chuckle comes from him, and something presses against the top of her head. It's so short she isn't sure if it really happened (though she isn't in the habit of hallucinating), but the floaty feeling in her chest makes Felicity decide that he _did_ kiss her forehead.

He falls into the co-pilot's seat, staring at her with those warm, smiling eyes. A part of her hates the loss of contact, but at the same time, this feels natural— _right_. Her boys are nearby and everything is right in her world again. It brings a thought to her mind that she immediately voices: "I missed you so much, Oliver." Something changes in his expression that makes her feel a little floaty. His sudden scrutiny isn't altogether comfortable, so she adds, "I mean all of you. The collective _you_."

"We missed you, too," he answers, a hint of that amused smile popping up. Oliver doesn't smile a lot, but sometimes she says things— _serious_ things—and he finds them funny. (Felicity doesn't mind, though; if it makes him happy, it makes her kind of… _fluttery_ , like she really _does_ have wings. It's a good thing she likes to fly.) "We're never really together without you, Felicity." The smile on his face is small, but it yet it manages to make her heart feel too big for her ribcage. "You've kept me informed about almost everything in your letters, but you haven't said anything about your mom. Have you heard from her?"

She frowns at the words, and that causes Oliver to frown, too. "She calls about once a week," Felicity answers, tapping her fingers on the controls. It's not her happiest subject, but she should know to expect it by now; Oliver always asks about her mother for some reason. "I usually don't talk to her long. After a while, she starts sounding all teary for some reason." She shrugs. "All I did was tell her about Billy."

Oliver scowls at her words, and it reminds the pilot why she never likes discussing this subject with him. It makes him all frowny and sad, but he has enough of that already. Most of the time when they all celebrated a good mission together, he'd be the one sitting alone, nursing a beer and frowning at the desert sand. Even more frustrating than the fact she put that look on his face now is that she can't fix it. After all, Felicity has a plane to fly; she can't curl into his side or sit in his lap and talk at him about unimportant things.

Foul moods must be like a plague, she decides, because now she's frowning, too, and she doesn't like it. "I don't want to talk about that, though," Felicity declares.

Oliver opens his mouth to protest, but she doesn't let him. (When Oliver starts protesting things, he just gets all growly, which makes _her_ growly, and he ends up in her face while _not kissing her_ and she has to use Loud Voice to make him get his head out of his ass.) "It makes me sad when I talk about my mom. More importantly, it makes _you_ sad when I talk about my mom." She glances over at him. "And I don't like it."

Because he can be so… _bullheaded_ ( _stubborn as an ass_ comes to mind—or is it mule? She never can remember), he continues anyway. Sometimes she finds that charming, but right now, Felicity is just a long, self-loathing speech away from Loud Voice. (It's fearsome enough to deserve capital letters. Oliver—big, bad, Marine Corps Oliver—likes to pretend it isn't, but there have been cases where he's literally _ran_ away from it.)

"Felicity," he says, breathing her name like a sigh and his salvation. It's incredibly rude of him to say it like that because now all she can think about is his breathy, reverent voice. "I'm sorry. I thought—"

"Oliver Queen, that's enough," she growls at him, and his jaw immediately snaps shut. (Sometimes Felicity thinks she might secretly be a lieutenant colonel because when she uses cold-enough-to-freeze-Hell voice, he starts taking orders from her.) "You have _nothing_ to apologize for. When you do, I'll make sure you know it." For some reason, he chuckles at that. _There's_ her Oliver, coming out to play. "The fact that my mother won't visit me isn't your fault. The fact that I stayed isn't your fault."

She leans over to poke him in the knee. "My life, my choice, Oliver. We decided that in Iraq."

"I know," Oliver assures her quickly, like he's scared she might use her Loud Voice. (He should be.) "But sometimes I think that leaving you was a mistake." There's something so soft, so tender about his voice that Felicity has to look at him. Despite his ability to vex her like no other, he also manages to make her stomach do somersaults when he stares at her like that. "I think about it like that a lot. Your mom doesn't even visit you, and I… _can't_. We should have taken you with us." He locks his jaw for a moment. "I failed you, Felicity."

She knows it kills him. Felicity can see it on his face every time they're separated for more than a few days. And she misses her boys so much that it hurts. _Especially_ Oliver. Not only is he incredibly pretty to look at, but he's her best friend. "You could _never_ fail me, Oliver," she answers with a slight smile. He returns it. Maybe she's made it through that thick skull just once.

"You're my guy." His eyebrows jump a foot in the air, and hers do too when she realizes what she just implied. "Not my _guy_ guy, but my _guy_." Slowly a smile spreads across his face. She waves a hand. "I know they sound the same, but they're different in my head."

He's quiet this time—the kind of quiet that makes her think he doesn't want to have this conversation anymore. Oliver's funny about things like that. Sometimes she says things and he gets all twitchy like he wants to run away.

Finally, a smile spreads across his face. "Does that mean you're my girl?"

"Always." The words come out quicker than she means them to, and she mentally slaps herself. "I mean," she backpedals, "if you want me to be. I wouldn't mind being your girl. I'm always your girl." She waves a hand. "Unless that makes you feel weird. I don't mean your _girl_ girl but—"

"Felicity." The eighth wonder of the world is how he says her name. It always makes Felicity feel like someone gave her wings, breathing it like a prayer and laughing all at once. If he wasn't already her special, perfectly imperfect Oliver, she'd give him that title right now. "It doesn't make me feel weird."

Talking with him is always a battle against the butterflies in her stomach. They seem to dance the can-can at his words. "Then it's settled," she declares. She might as well make it official while she isn't making him all twitchy. "You're my guy and I'm your girl."

"Sounds perfect," he decides with that shy smile, simultaneously making her insides melt and do backflips. (There are some things he does that only he can do. But in the three years she's known him, he's always been king of doing the impossible.) He falls quiet, lips pressing together. "I've missed you so much, Felicity."

Suddenly he rises to his feet, but sits back down when he realizes he'll have to leave the cockpit to pace. (Oliver paces sometimes when he's thinking. He's a pacer.) Instead, his knee starts bouncing. "I'm the one who makes you laugh," she replies with a nod.

A hand falls on her shoulder a second before lips press to her temple. This time she isn't just dreaming it, though. Her eyes fall closed for a second because she's sure this is what Heaven feels like: Oliver by her side, the rest of her boys close by.

"It's more than that," he says before pulling away.

 _He's_ more than that to her.

When her brain was broken and blown up and no one wanted her, Oliver was there begging her to get behind the controls. When everyone thought she was useless, he brought her into his team and made her a part of their ragtag family. When her boys were going to jail and she was locked up in a pretty cage, he stayed by her side. And even now that her mind is half-fried and argues with itself, he loves her all the same.

(She _knows_ it's true. She's heard him say it. She hears it _every_ time he says it.)

Maybe not in the way she wants, but she'll take it.

"I brought you something," he says suddenly, voice muffled as he digs through something behind her. A glint off of one of her shiny baubles on the console gives her a nice reflection of his ass as he bends for something. (Not that she looked. Because she didn't. But that shiny bauble is her new favorite.) "Put it on autopilot—I'll watch over it."

She does as he asks, and Felicity stares wide-eyed as he drops her comic book bag that sometimes G-men like to bug. (They think she doesn't know, but she _does_. And she feeds them incorrect information until she disables them.) "You needed some warmer clothes for Russia." He fidgets. "I had Thea put it together. I hope that's okay, but I felt uncomfortable going through your clothes."

Felicity rolls her eyes. The major never listens to her unless she says things he wants to hear. "I told you there's nothing scary in my underwear drawer, Oliver. I hide all the scary stuff in the bottom drawer of my nightstand." She winks and he finds something really fascinating about his shoes. "It's all pretty bland and boring. Well," she allows, "except for a few pieces of lingerie that still have the tags on them." His respect for her privacy is cute and all, but there's no one else she trusts enough to pack a bag from her house.

He still doesn't look at her. "That's too much danger for me," he answers in a voice dark enough to make night seem like day. It sends chills up Felicity's spine. The good kind, not the ones she's sure to experience in the Russian winter.

"You _live_ for danger, Oliver," she points out.

After clearing his throat, he continues as though she hasn't spoken, "You should probably change into something. Russia is going to be cold. Thea bought you some new things so you could stay warm." It's only now that she realizes he's in different clothes—a heavy, double-breasted coat over a gray sweater, a white shirt poking out underneath. Most importantly, though, he isn't wearing a hat. Good. She's stolen so many hats from him that she doesn't have room for any more.

"Good idea," she agrees, pulling the curtain between the cockpit and the passenger seating closed. After scrounging a little, Felicity squeals when she finds a chunky purple sweater with gray cat faces knitted into it. It seems to fall off the shoulders, but there's also a gray tank top under there, along with a fuchsia peacoat with a button missing on the top row.

It isn't even out of the bag before she hugs it. Only Oliver would know about that; to anyone else, it would just be an item to scrap. There are purple and teal patches that hold it together, and one pocket has a hole in it, but it's her favorite coat in the history of all coats.

He's saying it again, and she hears him even though he doesn't use any words: _I love you_.

Gathering her clothes in the pilot's chair, she zips up her bag and pushes it to the side. She pulls down her tank top before removing her t-shirt. When she goes for the hem of her tank, however, Oliver's voice calls out, "Felicity?" His voice sounds like he's swallowed a squirrel, and, when she looks up, he's staring in the opposite direction.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing, honey?" The butterflies in her belly start dancing again, just like they always do when he calls her that. It usually doesn't lead anywhere good, but it upsets the butterflies anyway.

"I'm changing clothes?" she says, though it comes out like a question. That's the bad tone—the tone that he uses for saying silly things like _Felicity, shouldn't you be flying the plane?_ and _Felicity, honey, you can't turn the helicopter off mid-flight_ and _It wouldn't be right if I shared the bed with you, honey_.

"I have to be at the controls, Felicity," he says. "I can't leave." Her brow furrows. Why would she want him to? Oliver sighs, running a hand down his face like _she's_ the difficult one in this relationship. "You can't change clothes in front of me."

She doesn't see his point. "Why can't I?" she counters. Why does he have to make good things seem bad? "I can't go out there—Roy always stares at me and turns red and makes this funny choking noise in his throat." She frowns toward the passenger area's direction. "And I don't know Laurel. She's a reporter, and they're always doing nosy things. She might try to slip a recording device into my clothes."

Oliver turns away. "Fine." He sounds like he did that time some guy nearly choked him to death. She's out of her tank top before he adds, "Wait. You change clothes in front of Roy?" His tone changes to his grr-I-will-arrow-you voice.

"Well, yeah," Felicity answers, brow furrowing as she pulls on the gray tank top. She glances over at him—still looking away, for whatever reason. "Small tents in Iraq, Oliver. I've changed in front of all of you at some point. Diggle just looked away and didn't say anything, but Roy just kind of stared. Digg didn't like it, but Roy said he wasn't expecting it and couldn't help himself." He says funny things like that sometimes.

He's silent as she slips on her sweater. (It fits perfectly; Thea is a genius. She needs to thank her sometime. Maybe she'll put that thought in her heart, too, so when her brain stops talking to her she'll still have it.) Finally, he states in a growly tone, "We're not in Iraq anymore. We'll _find_ you somewhere private to change."

"I don't need private," Felicity corrects, pulling on a pair of thermal leggings under her jeans. "I have you. That's twice as good." As she zips up her jeans, she bounces over and kisses his cheek. "Thank you for bringing my favorite coat." Since the plane is doing all the flying by itself and Oliver is watching the gauges, she slides into his lap. As always, it makes him smile. "This is why you're my favorite." As an afterthought, she whispers, "Don't tell the others. It might hurt their feelings."

He makes that low, breathy sound in his throat again—the laugh he tries to contain, but escapes anyway. (In her experience, laughs do what they want and don't ask permission.) He wraps his arms around her, cradling her into his chest. _This_ is what coming home feels like, Felicity realizes. "I think they already know," he whispers back with that special, playful glint in his eyes. The corners of his mouth steadily twist upward slowly, as if he's fighting it. Slowly the smile wins out, rising like a climber on a rock wall.. "But they know they're your favorites in other ways."

"That's true," Felicity agrees after a moment of thought. "John's my favorite big brother. And Roy's my favorite little brother." She smacks his shoulder suddenly as her mind accidentally lets a thought out. (They still aren't talking.) "Did I tell you? I decided—I've adopted him. He's mine now."

Oliver only arches an eyebrow. "And what am I?" he asks.

When he's looking at her like this— _really_ looking at her, like his eyes are taking x-rays of her soul—it makes her leg start bouncing and her hands get all twitchy. _No one_ pays attention to her the way Oliver does, and, as much as she likes it, it also makes it feel like creepy-crawlies are wiggling up her spine.

But he doesn't want to know this answer. Not really. It's the kind of answer that makes him want to run because she might have overstepped their carefully drawn lines. Oliver might not be her everything, but he's pretty damn close. He's her constant. If there's one thing she can always count on, if there's one thing she'd bet on, it's always going to be her Oliver.

Since the truth won't suffice, she gives him the closest thing she can to it: "Well, you're my favorite _favorite_ , of course."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter: 13  
Word Count: 4762**

 **Notes:** I hope the last two weeks have treated everyone okay! :)

According to the lovely Elsie B, who looked over this chapter, I should put a tissue warning at the beginning of this. So grab a box of tissues and maybe a blanket before you settle in. ;)

As always, thanks for being awesome enough to read this. Reviews are always appreciated, if you have the time to throw a lowly fanfiction writer a bone. ;)

* * *

 **Chapter 13  
(Or: "That Time Felicity Hitchhiked in a Plane")**

Most of the time, Felicity doesn't like the quiet. The quiet is when her brain tries to get back at her by planting fake thoughts in her head, making her see things that probably aren't there. (At least, if they are, no one else sees them. And she doesn't think she has super vision.) But her brain seems to be in a good mood because it's being nice to her. Either that, or it's behaving because it likes Oliver, too.

Somewhere in the last two hours of listening to her babble at him, he's managed to fall asleep. Things like that should probably upset her, but she knows he hasn't been sleeping right. Roy told her—and Roy always tells her the truth about Oliver. Now, however, soft snores are coming from his direction, and it makes her smile. All she needs now is to get him to eat something.

It's why she didn't want to leave in the first place. Roy is a grumpier grumpy cat when she's gone and Diggle is quiet and restless, but it's _Oliver_ she worries about.

They have a deal, one they started long ago in Iraq: he keeps her head on straight, and she keeps his demons away. Even she doesn't know the details, but it's clear enough that his first five years in the military were pure hell. By the time he came to her, he was already chased by ghosts. (Felicity could see them sometimes, too.) They always seem to follow him, but at times it's worse. When that happens, he can't sleep. And when Oliver can't sleep, he doesn't eat, either.

And when he doesn't sleep and doesn't eat, his mind poisons him with bad thoughts.

 _Very_ bad thoughts.

The kind of thoughts that make hers look like unicorns and rainbows. The kind of thoughts that keep _her_ up at night because she's worried he might do something about them. The kind of things that give her nightmares because she's afraid he's finally going to listen one day.

If that ever happens, Felicity knows it will be her undoing, as well as his.

But right now, those thoughts are far from his head, even if they aren't far from hers. He's asleep and safe, and those circles under his eyes already seem lighter. It's why she hates to leave him: he always looks so bone-deep tired when she's been away for a while, but by the time they're ready to take her back to her cage, he looks more like her Oliver again.

She's nearly had enough of this. Being locked up in her gilded cage was supposed to be _good_ for her, but the doctors just throw around fancy words and it isn't making a difference. Her head is still funny and her brain still isn't talking to her. Oliver wanted her mother to be able to see her, but she doesn't want to see how broken Felicity is. And, most importantly, being away from her boys is killing them slowly.

They might pretend differently, but Felicity sees it in them when she comes back. Her calm, quiet John takes most things in stride, but when he hugged her today, his eyes looked less droopy and his shoulders sat a little straighter. Her poor, precious Roy stops shuffling and his eyes look brighter. (Sometimes he gets a little teary, too, but Oliver's secrets aren't the only ones she keeps.)

But all of it pales in comparison to what her absence does to her beloved, lovely Oliver.

It starts first in his eyes because that's the most expressive part of him. (He doesn't smile and the rest of his face is a giant brick wall, but his eyes tell his life story. They're blabbermouths and tell everything they know.) Those gorgeous eyes start to droop, and, when he stops sleeping, they paint dark circles under themselves. Then it's his shoulders, which sag with the weight of the burdens he carries with him. Last, it's his mouth—that gloriously wonderful mouth that Felicity has spent many nights thinking about. It starts to go numb and stop smiling and, when it gets grumpy, starts barking out orders in a nasty voice. But it all starts to disappear the moment she comes back.

It's because he wants her close by, which she will never understand. (Logically, she knows that he cares for her, but the broken, cynical part of her mind doesn't know why he'd bother.) John may be his right-hand man, but it's _her_ he shares his secrets with and confesses things he doesn't want to admit, even to himself. But whatever the reason, she'll take his many quiet thoughts to her grave—whether her mind lets her remember them or not.

A quick glance down at her coordinates lets her know they're closing in on their destination, and Felicity sighs. As much as she hates to wake him, she needs Oliver to be her copilot now. "Oliver, my lovely?" she calls out to him, her voice tentative.

His eyes fly open the moment his name leaves her mouth. His reaction is what it always is; his shoulders go stiff and his eyes are as wild as a panther's. It rushes out of him a moment later, twisting his lips upward. "Felicity?"

The way he says her name goes all through her when he's like this. Sleep clings to his voice like syrup—only far less smooth than any syrup. It throws his voice deeper, and there's an enticing rasp laid on thick at the edges. It's a blessing and a curse at once; both salvation and damnation; torment and temptation. It's magical how he can make four simple syllables say so much.

That's it. She's decided: Oliver is magic.

It's the only logical conclusion. No mere mortal could say her name like that.

"Felicity?" Now he's gone and done it again, and it's all she can think about. No one man should be able to say her name like a prayer and a demand all at once. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Is he _trying_ to murder her with his intensity? If so, he's succeeding. Never mind how he manages to say her name; when he calls her _honey_ in that tone, her brain short circuits and all it can do is release a huge, billowy smoke. What's wrong is she's lost all coherent thought and it's all his fault for having such a sinful, wicked mouth that can wrap around words that way.

"Your voice is wickedly beautiful right now," she blurts.

The moment it catches up to her, she cringes. Stupid, stupid brain—how dare it let bad, private thoughts leave the confines of her head.

He must still be in that space between awake and asleep because he replies with a chuckle in that half-asleep voice, " _You_ are wickedly beautiful right now, too." It makes the butterflies trapped in her stomach restless, fluttering around the space. At the same time, it makes her heart feel like it's too big for her chest. Then she wonders if that's how the Grinch felt when his heart broke the monitor thing because it was a size too big. (She might be Jewish, but a part of her will always love the spirit of giving found in the secular Christmas, too. It's her secret indulgence.)

Her face feels hot as he adds, "I never see you so…" He trails off, shaking his head.

Felicity loves it when they play this game. "Happy?" she supplies.

" _Alive_ ," Oliver corrects. "I never see you so alive as when you're flying." His eyes bore into her like laser beams again—except they don't burn her skin. "I love to watch you fly." He clears his throat, and that gravelly, sleep quality leaves his voice—both thankfully and unfortunately. "Was there a reason you woke me up?"

 _Was_ there? Felicity is sure there was one at the time, but… "You distracted me with your magic voice and I can't remember," she admits after a moment.

"Magic?" he repeats with an arch of his eyebrow.

Stupid brain. That shouldn't have left it, either—that thought was much less dangerous tucked away. A smirk plays on his lips—a smirk just as wicked as his wicked lovely voice—and she winces internally at the onslaught about to come. Playful Oliver isn't merciful, but yet he manages to be one of the best Olivers she knows. "And did you call me your lovely?"

That shouldn't have left her brain, either—and wouldn't have, if it didn't betray her. "Traitorous brain," she grumbles under her breath. It makes Oliver laugh, though, so it's worth it.

Fortunately, her reason for waking him jumps back in her head. Maybe her brain is apologizing for its treachery. As it should. "I was going to tell you we're coming in on Russia. Maybe a few minutes out of Moscow. Any ideas where to land?"

The glint of mischief in Oliver's eyes indicates he knows she intentionally changed the subject. It might have been a nice excuse, but there is the matter that she has to ask questions when she thinks of them—before they disappear again. "Probably Sheremetyevo," he answers after a moment.

Felicity nods. "Then it's probably best if we pick up another bird and follow it down," she decides after deliberating for a few heartbeats. "We don't have any flight plans on file, and we don't need to find ourselves locked in a Russian prison." After a moment, she qualifies it with, " _Again_."

"Felicity, are you—?" Oliver begins to ask.

Another thought wiggles into her brain, so she can't let him finish. "And I need to set up the wireless router."

"I did that while Laurel was asking questions about us," he answers absently, glancing out the window. Felicity smiles at his new-found knowledge of computer-y things; when she first met Oliver Queen, he didn't know a SCSI cable from an Ethernet cord. "I'm not sure this plan is the best idea, honey." He hesitates. "Won't air traffic control have concerns about an unauthorized flight landing?"

That's the one thing about Oliver that Felicity has to fight with constantly: he's always worrying about such minor things. " _Everything_ worries those primadonnas," she answers, waving a hand. "I'll handle it."

"But—"

"Do I tell you how to shoot your arrows or make plans?" she counters his unspoken argument.

There's a sigh, a hand over his face. After a few moments of indecision, he wisely decides not to fight this battle. (Good. He won't win.) "I'll go see what's incoming from Starling International." He rises from his seat, his hand lingering on her shoulder just long enough to make her wish it was more. "Let me get the laptop and see what I can find." Almost as an afterthought, he adds with a wink, "Try not to get into any trouble while I'm gone, Captain."

"No promises, Major," is her quick reply. "I won't go looking for trouble, but that's never stopped it from finding me before."

She's rewarded with one of those rare laughs as he disappears into the back of the plane, leaving her in the quiet with her aimless brain again. This time it isn't as pleasant, reminding her that in a few short, sweet days, she'll be back in the psychiatric ward again and Oliver will be off with the rest of the team without her. It makes her eyes water at the corners; every time she leaves, she wonders if she'll see them again. Or, if when she does, she'll even know them at all.

When they pushed the drugs into her head, she barely recognized herself, much less her wonderful boys. She vaguely remembers staring at her precious Oliver and not knowing anything about him—other than the fact that his lovely eyes were filled with agony. It took her a good week to get her memory to speak to her after that, and when she went home, she refused to take any more medication. It took the hospital staff _weeks_ before they finally listened to her, but when she went after Dr. Cutter—the lady who filled her head full of fuzz and took all of her precious memories of her boys—with her confiscated knife, they finally decided that drugs weren't the answer.

She might have lost her favorite knife, but she found her mind again.

Broken and battered as it might have been.

When Oliver returns, her brief lapse is all she can think about, but she tries to press it down under a smile. The minute he sees it, though, his grin slips from his face. "What's wrong?" he asks, his words immediate.

"Nothing," she assures him.

It engages them in another of their silent battles of will, the kind where Oliver's eyes speak not just volumes, but entire libraries. While Felicity has won a few of these arguments in the past, wordless is not the platform at which she excels in terms of debate. And in this one thing, he is infinitely patient, willing to wait for her to grow so tired of the quiet that she relents.

Because Oliver Queen is the most ruthlessly, unapologetically tenacious person on the planet, she finally asks in a rush, "Do you ever think about that time they pumped me so full of drugs that I couldn't remember any of you and worry about it happening again?"

It's as if he shatters and breaks from the inside out, eyes filling with the weight of his sadness while the rest of him stays behind that perfectly polished mask. "No," he answers with so much conviction that it makes her want to believe it, too.

"Neither do I," she answers quickly. Too quickly.

He battles her with his eyes again, and this time Felicity concedes on principle. She's too mentally tired to argue with him again, especially when she'll only lose. "Roy said something about it earlier," she explains in a quiet tone. "I don't think he's forgiven me yet."

Oliver sighs before turning her to face him. He places his hands on the armrests, leaning over her so close that she can feel his breath on her face. Because he's so close it's agony, her eyes flick to his lips. God, how many dreams has she had that start just like this…? Too many to count.

Her gaze flicks back to those blue eyes, and she finds herself lost in them again. Maybe she should draw a map sometime.

"Listen to me, Felicity," he demands in a half-growly tone, somewhere between frustrated growly and sad growly. (There are a lot of nuances in Oliver's growly voice, and Felicity knows them all.) "Roy is not mad at you for that. None of us are. That was beyond your control. It's just… we were scared."

Felicity has to look away from the intensity in his eyes, but he won't let her escape. He tilts her head back to him with a finger crooked under her jaw, so much emotion playing on his features that she can't recognize them any longer. "You are an important part of this team. We work together as a unit, and if one of us falls apart, so do we. Seeing you so confused… it nearly killed us." His voice breaks so subtly, but it manages to tear her apart. "We care about you, and we _need_ you with us."

He cups her face, and her body leans into his touch without permission. She smiles despite his words; somehow Oliver always manages to find a way to make her feel better about everything. After reaching out absently to press the autopilot button again, she reaches over the console wraps her arms around his neck.

One of the most magical things about Oliver is his hugs—even when they're as awkward as this one. His hugs make her feel like she's his entire world, like he isn't happy unless all of his senses are flooded with her. It's the way he wraps his arms around her like he can't get her close enough, the way he buries his head in her shoulder and just breathes a long, world-weary sigh into her shoulder. And, most of all, it's the way he lingers, as if he never wants to let go again. That's fine with her. She doesn't want him to, anyway.

He pulls back just enough to cup her face in both of his hands, after too long and not long enough. "Don't you _ever_ think that we're angry with you about what happened," Oliver insists in a firm, almost-growly tone. "No one blames you for that. Not even Roy. He loves you." His thumb rubs a circle into her cheek. "We _all_ love you, honey. He's just scared because he thinks he almost lost you."

He kisses her forehead and pulls away before adding, "Understandably so. That would have left him with just Digg and me."

"You're not so bad, Oliver," she replies, her answer coming fast as she disengages the autopilot. But it's _too_ fast, and she tries to cover it with, "And John is good, too. He's so quiet and calm and peaceful and fierce." A thought comes to her, and it ties itself directly to her mouth. "He's like a paladin. Defender of the weak, protector of the innocent. He should be in armor and charge into battle on a white steed."

Laughing, Oliver asks, "Do you see all of us as knights?" The smile stays in place, but those beautiful blue eyes turn serious. "Do you picture me riding into battle on a white horse, too?"

Felicity scoffs. "Of course not, Oliver. Don't be ridiculous. You aren't exactly knight material." Only when his smile falls slightly does she realize she's insulted him. It makes her rush into, "No, you'd be on a bay horse that blends into the forest. You'd be a ranger who wears a green cloak and moves in silence, picking off enemies from afar. Like a shadow. By the time they saw _you_ , it would be far too late for them to do anything about it."

He's quietly thoughtful a moment before admitting, "I kind of like the sound of that." Of course he does; Oliver is secretly a ranger-the arrow-y, shadowy kind, not the Army kind like Diggle should have been. (He thinks she doesn't know, but she does.) He clears his throat once before opening the laptop and adding, "I have your flight information. …Looks like there's a three-thirty Air China and a four-ten Aeroflot. Both from Starling International."

In her best Russian accent, Felicity replies, "I think we go four-ten West into heart of Mother Russia. The blue tails are easy to see, and the pilots do not mind if we hitchhike."

It does the trick: Oliver laughs again. It's music to her ears; an Oliver laugh is one of the most pure, beautiful sounds in the world. They're quiet for a moment before he asks, "If Digg is a paladin and I'm a ranger, what does that make Roy?" At first Felicity thinks he's joking, but then she glances at his expression. "More importantly, what does that make _you?_ "

It's one of the many things she loves about Oliver: he never jokes about things that are serious to her.

"Roy is a rogue," she answers immediately. "He's shifty and steals stuff. He's a pickpocket and he doesn't always do nice things. He'd make a _great_ rogue." Hers, she has to think about for a moment. "I guess I'd be the mage. I make sure you all stay in one piece, and I make us disappear—digitally and via flying." The more she thinks about it, the more she likes it. "I'm magic."

Oliver nods several times before replying, "I can't argue with that." He goes back to his chair, leaning against the back of his seat and losing his normally perfect posture for a moment. He sighs, going through plans. After a few false starts, he asks, "Can I talk to you about this?" Of course; he can talk to her about anything, but now his interests are in the case. Oliver Queen, on the jazz again, in need of a friendly ear.

Fortunately for him, Felicity has two of them. "Sure." He opens his mouth to speak, but she doesn't let him. This is her favorite part, and he is _not_ going to ruin it for her. "No, _I'm_ going to start us out." Oliver smiles, though wisely says nothing. "A reporter friend of Laurel's whose name is stuck in the part of my brain that isn't talking to me—"

"Iris West," he supplies for her.

"That's it. Thank you." She tilts her head to the side. "Why can't I remember that?"

"You have intermittent memory loss, Felicity."

Felicity frowns. She does? Oh, that's right; she remembers Cait saying something about that. How does her brain keep hiding things like this from her? "I forgot about that," she confesses after a moment.

"I think that's the point, honey," Oliver answers with a chuckle.

His laugh makes her feel a little better about it. Most people get frustrated because her brain shuts her out, but her impatient Oliver seems to save an infinite amount of patience especially for her. (Maybe that's why he doesn't have any for anything else.)

She was talking about something important. She knows it, even if her mind is stealing her thoughts again. Felicity drums her fingers against the controls. They were talking about… Russia. Something to do with Russia. And a case and… Finally it clicks again. Laurel's reporter friend. The name, however, doesn't come back. "What was her name again? The reporter friend of Laurel's?"

This time Oliver's smile falls a little, and his eyes lose their bright shiny-ness they always have when he's happy. Sometimes when she does this too often—forgets things he just told her—it makes him realize just how much of a mess she really is. The _last_ thing he needs to do is worry about her. "Iris," he repeats, quieter this time.

"I'm sorry I made you sad," Felicity blurts. In the early days, she used to worry he'd kick her off the team and find someone better because of things like this, but now she knows that her Oliver would never desert her. Not even if her brain is funny and broken and wrong.

His hand falls on her knee, squeezing it just a little. It makes the butterflies in her stomach start dancing again. "You could _never_ make me sad," he assures her. He pats her leg once more before pulling his hand away. "You wanted to start off the case summary?" he prompts.

Yes, she did. She always does. "The reporter friend—Iris—goes to cover a political thing in Russia, but then she starts in on another story. Something about how Russian government officials are accepting bribes from the Bratva. Customs guys are paid to look the other way so the mob can pass shipments of guns, drugs, and girls through the borders. Mob guys in prison are mysteriously 'escaping'"—she takes her hands off the controls to make air quotes—"from some of the most high-security prisons in the world." Felicity shakes her head. "Have you ever _seen_ the security around a Russian prison? They use Caucasian mountain dogs to protect those places. Those things are like miniature _lions_ , Oliver. No way can anyone escape from there without losing an arm. Or leg. Or both."

"Felicity," Oliver says with weight. Oh, her thoughts ran away with her again, didn't they? When she blinks twice, he prompts, "She was doing an article on the Bratva and…"

"Well, that's it, isn't it?" is her reply. "We don't know. She just… goes off the grid." She waves a hand in his direction. "That's where _you_ come in with whatever my tracking programs found for you in the meantime."

Oliver clicks around shakily on the computer for a few moments before saying, "Facial recognition software picked up a hit from the ID photo we compared it to. " There's more clicking on the track pad, but this time at the speed of government policy decisions. Felicity reminds herself that it's going to take baby steps to bring her favorite Luddite out of the Stone Age. "Looks like she was arrested by officers in Moscow and taken to prison." He frowns. "I lost track of the vehicle on our feeds, but I know someone who owes me a favor and will know. Anatoly doesn't miss much."

She glances over at him, but she turns her attention back to the front of the plane when their eyes meet. It's just in time to watch a blue-tailed Aeroflot jet begin start to line up for descent. Good; she's on track. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks in a low voice.

From the corner of her eye, she watches his head tilt to the side in question. Felicity sighs. There's no good way to phrase this without it sounding like an accusation. "I thought you wanted to be done with that part of your life, Oliver." This time when she looks at him, their eyes lock. "You seem so… _troubled_ by who you were in those days, and… every time you go to that place in your head, it's a little harder to bring you back."

Oliver eases her hand off the controls to weave his fingers through hers. "Hey," he coaxes her gently, leaning in his chair to catch her glance. Reluctantly, she complies with his silent command. "You're not gonna lose me, okay?" When he squeezes her hand, she almost believes it. Almost. "That part of my life is over, and I am _not_ going back." He releases a breath instead of another set of words, faltering in his speech. "And if I start to backslide, I have you to keep me in line."

"I think you underestimate your own stubbornness," Felicity blurts as his hand pulls from hers.

The lines that have appeared in his brow start to fade, smoothing themselves out. "Or maybe I _don't_ underestimate _yours_ ," he corrects with a wink. It makes her want to hug him again; her Oliver is coming out to play. Broody Oliver might be familiar territory, but _this_ lovely creature in front of her is the one she fell in love with.

Platonically. In that platonic way people fall in love with one another.

As she tries to figure out what to say next, Felicity falls silent, watching the plane she's tailing start to descend. It's only a few heartbeats later that there's a tentative touch on her arm. "What are you thinking in that beautiful brain of yours?" Oliver asks.

It suddenly feels too hot in the room as her skin heats with the unexpected compliment. "Oh, Major," she decides with a sigh, "I think we both know that there's nothing beautiful about my brain." If it was, it wouldn't be all broken and arguing with her and forgetful. She wouldn't have Billy at home in her gilded cage and her precious Roy wouldn't call her _Batshit_ like she loves.

Her lovely Oliver doesn't relent. Instead, it seems to convince him to argue further. "Even with schizophrenia and intermittent memory loss, this"—he reaches across to poke her temple with his index finger—"is your superpower, Felicity." She bites her lip as she turns to him, and he adds, "I had my pick of every pilot on active duty, and I picked _you_. Don't forget that."

Felicity sniffs a few times, dabbing at the corner of one eye. It's just like him to know _exactly_ what she needed to hear. Maybe now her brain will stop tormenting her with horrible scenarios of forgetting everyone she's ever loved—and stop forgetting how wonderful her amazing boys are. She'll shove that thought down deep in her heart, where her brain can't steal it and hide it from her. "Thank you, Oliver. You're a good, pure person."

He laughs as though she's said something funny. (She didn't. Felicity is very serious about that, and maybe if he hears it enough, he'll realize it.) "No one has ever accused me of that before," is his even reply. She'll tell him that again later. …If she remembers. (There's no guarantee about that.) But she'll tell him every time she thinks it, just in case, until he actually believes it. Before she can say it again, though, he shifts in his seat and points to the descending plane in front of them. "How fast can you bring us down, Captain?"

She winks at him. "You just landed, Major."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter: 14  
Word Count: 4100**

 **Notes:** Hey, y'all! It is currently after 1 AM on Friday, and since I am completely wide awake, I thought I'd just go ahead and post this. This is straight of the presses with Elsie B, who is again invaluable for her help (especially the aeronautics part of this).

While I'm here, I wanted to let you guys know that **there will not be an update next week**. I'm going to be out of town for my birthday-and for a nice, long weekend. Here's hoping I can get some writing done in the meantime because I am hopelessly behind (again).

You guys are awesome for taking the time to read this. Should you choose to review, I greatly appreciate that, too. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 14  
(Or: "That Time Oliver Ran a Con in Five Minutes")**

As Felicity begins her descent, Oliver watches her. He can't help himself; while she's remarkable most of the time, Felicity Smoak is in a league of her own behind the controls of a plane. It's like she takes on new life: her eyes are brighter, a smile lingers on her face, and she sings upbeat, cheerful tunes. Even now she hums under her breath while flipping switches and checking gauges. It's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.

 _She's_ one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.

Swaying as though she's hearing another song in her head, she presses a button on the dashboard. "Hello, this is your pilot speaking," she starts in a professional tone filled with false warmth. "We are beginning our descent, so I'll ask that everyone fastens their seatbelts and stays seated for the duration of the flight." She reaches over to tap Oliver's harness in a silent suggestion. He opens his mouth to protest, but the look on her face silences him. Grudgingly, he slips all the buckles into place. "And, on another note, if you look off to your left, you will notice an Aeroflot plane from your window. As always, thank you for flying Miracle Airlines. Remember: if you survive, it's a Miracle."

"This is _not_ the time for your level of crazy, Batshit!" reaches their ears from way in the back.

Felicity giggles, still bouncing along to the beat of the song playing only in her head. "I'm not sure antagonizing Roy is the best idea," Oliver warns, though he can't quite keep the smile from his face. "He hates to fly, and your flying scares him."

She shrugs in response. "I've always managed to bring my boys home in one piece," she answers, "and I always will. There's nothing he should be afraid of." Her expression turns thoughtful for a moment before she suggests, "Maybe he should see a psychologist about his fear of flying. Cait is good at phobias. There was a guy in my ward that was afraid of penguins, but now he has posters of them on his wall."

Because her mention of the psychiatric hospital only makes him think about how miserable she must be, he focuses instead on the part that she isn't taking into consideration, likely because she's forgotten again. "We're on the run from the military police, Felicity," he reminds her in a gentle tone.

"That's no excuse, Oliver," she insists hotly. "Taking care of one's mental health is important, regardless of the situation. I take time to run missions all over the world with you three, and yet I still make sure I keep my appointments with Caitlin."

A laugh bubbles up that he can't push back down. "Felicity…" He sighs; for once, Oliver doesn't even know where to begin. Maybe this is why he gravitates toward her so much: talking to Felicity is always unique and never boring. "Sometimes talking to you is like playing the bagpipes in a ukulele band."

While most people might find insult in that, she knows what he means, beaming from ear to ear with one of her sunniest smiles. "I like talking to you, too," she answers without missing a beat. Her brow furrows. "But could you have made it something else, instead of the bagpipes? I _hate_ bagpipes."

Because he can deny her nothing, he humors her thought process, as unique and unpredictable as it might be. "Would you feel better if I said saxophone? Or bassoon?" he counters.

While flipping more switches and checking gauges, Felicity answers absently, "Bassoon. I like the bassoon. Or the oboe. It has to be something kind of unusual. Like me. My brain makes me unique ever since it went…" She turns to him long enough to cross her eyes and thump her temple.

"Felicity, talking to you is like playing the bassoon in a ukulele band," Oliver tries again. Her good humor is so contagious that he finds himself smiling. "And I like your brain, unusual or not."

It brings a flush of color to her face, the same way it always does when he compliments her. It's part of the reason why he does; no one is ever so surprised or flattered by praise as Felicity. "That's because you're as crazy as me," she teases, patting his arm. "And as much as I love talking to you, I have to talk to some Russians now to clear our landing." She leans over to place a quick kiss to his cheek before slipping the headset around her neck over her ears.

Oliver tries very hard to ignore the sudden heat in his cheeks, turning his attention back to the laptop as Felicity talks to the tower. He brings up the images he found from Felicity's facial recognition programs, studying them with a furrow between his brows. The military vehicle is unmarked, and the registration number isn't visible. All he knows is that there's a ninety-five percent probability the woman in the photograph is Iris West. …Well, that and the men escorting her might be in police uniforms, but that doesn't disguise their Bratva tattoos.

It seems that Anatoly really is his best option.

He glances over to Felicity, listening to her try to request landing with the tower. _Every time you go to that place in your head, it's a little harder to bring you back_ , Felicity had said to him. Though it hurt, Oliver knew it was out of a place of concern—so much that she had stopped smiling for a few moments, gnawing on her bottom lip. What hurt most is that she wasn't wrong. He's visited all the dark places. He's been the monster under the bed. God knows he's been the angel of death—though there's nothing angelic about what he did. And most of the skills on the shadier side of his résumé come from his work in Russia.

As horrible as that time was, he can't ever bring himself to regret it—not really. It was those side missions for ARGUS that caught the attention of one Amanda Waller, a manipulative visionary who had no intention of wasting his career on wetwork. It was Waller who came to him about the idea of leading a spec ops team that worked outside the branches of the military. It was that decision that caused him to meet three of the most capable, efficient, and brave people on the planet. They're brothers-in-arms who wouldn't hesitate to lay down their lives for one another without a second thought. He can't regret bringing Diggle and Roy into his life.

"Say again, dude?" Felicity asks into the headset. "Mr. Tower Control Guy, I can't hear a word you're saying. The static is so bad you might as well be rubbing a fuzzy hamster across your mic."

Oliver grins over at her, earning a wave and the world's strangest wink—the one she has that barely distinguishes itself from a blink. God knows he can't regret letting Felicity skip into his life and tap-dance all over his boundaries, either. When he picked her name from a database, he had no idea he'd be getting a witty, quirky, unpredictable genius of an aviatrix who could hold her own—not just with her fellow teammates, but with _him_.

While Diggle and Roy took their orders without question in the beginning, Felicity challenged Oliver from the first days of their unit, never hesitating to call him out when he was wrong. When they argued, she matched him for intensity, standing on her toes and poking a finger into his chest. She would tell him to get his head out of his ass and storm off, but at the first sign of resistance from the enemy, she was backing his play—despite what she thought about it. And when things look bad, she's the one to give him the strength to keep going.

Maybe he was wrong when he told Thea that Felicity is his right hand. She's something much more vital than that. He could live without a right hand, but he isn't quite sure he would function without Felicity in his life. There's no question in Oliver's mind that he would have self-destructed long ago without this incredible woman who saw him at his worst and showed him kindness when he didn't always deserve it.

Even now that he's at his best and she's at her worst, he still isn't quite sure he deserves her.

"You and your fuzzy hamster mic can go to hell, you sexist, braying donkey!" Felicity shouts without warning, causing Oliver to type a string of nonsense into the keyboard. He turns just in time to duck as she slings her headset away, barely missing his head. She winces. "Sorry, Oliver, I didn't mean to throw that at you."

In the three years he's known her, Oliver has _never_ seen her so angry she has to express it physically. He never really believed her outburst with Dr. Cutter—furious or not, he's never seen her take a knife to _anyone_ unless in self-defense—but now he isn't so sure. It makes him wonder if she's developing new symptoms, if her mental health is starting to backslide.

But that's something to bring to her attention later, when she isn't gripping the controls so hard her knuckles are white. For now, he only asks in a cautious tone, "Felicity, honey, aren't you supposed to talk to that guy?"

"Not when we have _Ivan Drago_ in the tower!" she answers hotly, with a huff. She has several false starts of sentences before waving her hand around in a vague gesture. "He's just screaming at me in angry Russian! I can't understand him! How am I supposed to work with that, Oliver?!"

She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not yelling at you." Her mouth twists before she allows, "Well, I'm yelling _at_ you, but I'm not yelling at _you_." She growls under her breath at her own description, and Oliver has to press his lips together to prevent a laugh from escaping. "I mean, I'm using Loud Voice, but it isn't aimed at you this time. You're still my Oliver and I still love you."

The smile that was threatening break loose before spreads across his face now. Despite how he tries, Oliver can't fight the swell of happiness that rises when she says she loves him. While it might be nice to hear, it's also a landmine he tries to narrowly avoid. Instead of responding to the apology that tangles him up in knots, he replies instead to her explanation of the situation. She's probably forgotten, but… "Felicity, you _speak_ Russian."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Well _of course_ I do!" Felicity retorts. "But _he_ didn't. Not very well, at least." Her face contorts in anger again, and because it isn't aimed at him, Oliver has to bite his lip. When that fury isn't unleashed at him, something about her reminds him of a mad kitten: hair bristled and screeching, but still more adorable than it should be. "And he was being _rude_ , Oliver. He had the nerve to call me a _suka_." He winces; in any language, the word _bitch_ isn't one to utter in front of Felicity. Before he can try to coax her into a calmer state, she holds out a hand. "Can you pass me my headset, please?"

When he slips one ear cover into her waiting hand, she lifts the mic to her mouth and yells in Russian, "You speak Russian like an infant, you son of a motherless goat! Your mother should be _ashamed_ she has such a stupid, misogynist son!" With a sigh, she lets it drop to the floor at her feet. "Thank you, my lovely Oliver." The use of that phrase with his name goes into the box of things in his head that he is never going to attempt to analyze. "I feel so much better now."

This Felicity, the one who uses her sharp tongue as a weapon, is much more familiar territory. However, it does create problems for him; his plan for landing depended on her talking the plane in much more rationally. But that's why he always has a back-up plan.

As she lowers the landing gear one notch, Oliver only observes, "I think we're going to have some trouble with the airport about this landing."

Felicity dismisses it with a wave of her hand. "Oh, don't worry about me," she assures him. "They can't do anything. I'm escaped from a mental institution. It's not my fault—I'm crazy. I don't even have a license anymore." Her eyes widen with a realization, and she turns to look at him before confessing, "Actually, I don't think I should be flying _at all_. Oliver, why did you let me fly this plane?"

"Cute," he remarks with a smile. It only makes her frown, tilting her head to the side, and it's only then he realizes she's serious. "License or not, there's nowhere else I'd want you than in a cockpit," he answers, sliding out of his copilot's seat. In the process, he leans over and kisses her temple, which brings a smile back to her face.

As he rises to his feet, he says, "We need a con." Her eyes light up; she loves a good con, possibly more than he does. "What do you think about a Vegas Wake-Up Call?"

The smile falls from her face as she stares at him open-mouthed. "Major, that is certifiably insane—and that happens to be my area of expertise," she says when she finds her voice. A moment later, she tacks on, "I love it."

He pats her shoulder before entering the passenger area to find Digg, Roy, and Laurel sitting around one of the tables and gathering the remains of a poker game. Maybe they've engaged her, pulled information from her. He'll discuss that with them later. For now, he calls, "Gentlemen, we need to leave fast." Digg opens his mouth to ask, but Oliver answers before he can. "Felicity sparked some trouble in the flight tower."

"Seriously, Batty?" Roy calls out, incredulous. "I thought you were yelling at _Oliver_ in Russian again. Way to piss off the traffic controller."

"He called me a bitch," is all Felicity answers.

"Maybe he wouldn't have if you weren't trying to pull a batshit-insane, illegal landing," Roy retorts.

"He called me a _bitch_ ," she repeats. "There's a line, Roy dearest, and this... _gentleman_ "—she spits the word so hard it makes Oliver flinch—"played hopscotch across it."

Oliver narrows his eyes at the private, silently daring him to interrupt again. "We're going to have some trouble about the landing. We're doing a Vegas Wake-Up Call." He turns to John. "I need you to find a gurney, Digg."

With a nod, he's out of his seat, but Roy protests, "A _Vegas Wake-Up Call_ , Oliver?!" He motions toward the cockpit. "We need Felicity to fly the plane! Who's gonna be the dead hooker?" He glances over at Laurel. "The only other option is Vicki Vale over here, but it takes some training to pretend to be dead."

"I'm more opposed to the part where I'll be playing a prostitute," Laurel points out, sending the kid a glare. Oliver makes a mental note about that; he's seen that look on Sara's face too many times. "You need a dead prostitute for a con, and both of your thoughts are women." Her voice drips with sarcasm as she adds, "How wonderfully sexist."

Roy shrugs. "Hey, we all have parts to play, lady," he answers without apology. "And I'd be glad to let you play the part of the hooker's girlfriend instead, but do you even _know_ what a Vegas Wake-Up Call is?" Silence is his answer, as well as a rather nasty glare. Point made, he turns back to Oliver. "So who's gonna play the dead hooker?"

Felicity offers the same answer from the cockpit that Oliver does: " _Digg!_ "

Digg, Roy, and Laurel all turn to him as if waiting for an explanation. Oliver runs a hand down his face; for once, he thinks it would be so much easier if everyone understood his schemes the way Felicity did. As if answering his thoughts, she adds, "It's not really a Vegas Wake-Up Call. It's more like a Vegas mixed with a Turkey Tumble."

Roy's eyes light with recognition while Digg asks, "And I'm the dead pilot, right?"

Oliver nods. "Dying," he corrects. "Roy, you're the co-pilot with medical training—get an IV set and a stethoscope from my bag and make it look convincing." Louder he calls, "Felicity, as soon as we're on the runway, I need you back here. You're the doctor—Russian national, Laurel's sister." The only complication is Laurel; though his team has pulled many cons like this on a moment's notice, she's a civilian. "Laurel…"

She looks at him expectantly, and he takes her appearance in: grey suit jacket, black skirt and heels, and a maroon blouse. He isn't going to match. Frowning for a moment, he remembers the soft blue button-down shirt in his bag, and he dives for it, stripping off his sweater. Despite the white shirt underneath, the hairs on the back of his neck still rise as he feels her staring at the few scars that are visible.

As he changes into the button-down, he continues, "We're about to run a con. The marks—the people we're planning to con—are going to be confused and disoriented, but that's the way we want them." He starts buttoning the shirt as he turns to her. "We aren't going to steal anything—maybe just borrow a car. All I need you to do is act distraught and scared. Don't say anything if you don't have to—let me handle that. Just stay with me and pretend you're terrified." As he tucks the shirt into his jeans, he asks, "Can you do that?"

She nods once, and Oliver recognizes the steel in her eyes. It's the same look Sara gave him when she set her mind to something. Good; that's what he needs right now. With one last glance into his bag, he pulls out a well-worn box that he's been saving for a con like this. The idea of using it makes his stomach churn, but sacrifices must be made.

He opens the box and slips its contents into his hand before moving back to her. Laurel jumps when he takes her left hand, but he just continues, "You probably won't be asked who you are, but just in case... Your name is Vasilisa Atwood, but everyone calls you Lisa for short. You were born in Russia, but your parents emigrated to the US, and you only speak English. You're here to see your homeland for the first time." Slowly and with shaking fingers, he slips a gold ring with a single diamond onto her fourth finger before dropping her hand like it's on fire. "My name is Paul Atwood, and I'm traveling with you." He slips a matching band onto his own finger, unable to say the part that's obvious by now.

Well, at least it's not legally binding.

Laurel smirks up at him with a sparkle in her eyes after inspecting the ring. "Do you always move this fast?" she quips with a smile. "I've met you twice, and now we're married. I believe in jumping in feet first, but this might be a little quick, even for me." Oliver resists the urge to run—but just barely.

Fortunately, a familiar hand squeezes his shoulder. "Don't mention the M-word, Laurel," Felicity warns, serious for an uncharacteristic moment. "Not even in a joke. It makes him all twitchy—like me when someone mentions kangaroos." She wraps her arm through his. "If we need to, we can switch roles. Roy could be her kid brother. That keeps you from wearing a ring."

The offer makes him want to kiss her. Instead, he just pats the hand on his shoulder before pulling away. "We stick to the plan," he instructs. "A husband and wife duo is more convincing. Raises fewer red flags." He turns to Laurel. "We need this to be perfect. They can't ask any questions we don't want them to ask."

Roy calls to them before she can answer. "Hey, Major, we're ready," he yells, motioning to the gurney and IV line. With one nod, the private is pushing the gurney down the ramp, while Felicity grabs a stethoscope and starts murmuring medical terminology as if she went to medical school. Part of the reason he selected her for the role is her adaptability; beyond the hallucinations and the paranoia and the memory loss, there's still a well-read genius lurking underneath.

After they've cleared, Oliver takes a deep breath before throwing his arm over Laurel's shoulder. She tenses under his touch, and somehow he refrains from rolling his eyes. "Please, Laurel," he says with a sigh. "If I wanted to make a move on you, it wouldn't be this sophomoric." Some tension releases in her shoulders. "But for the time being, just try to pretend like you like me."

By the time they exit the plane with their bags, there's a tall, blond man standing in front of them, his breath puffing out in front of him in the chill. "I am Ground Control Officer Lagounov," he says in terse Russian. "I am impounding this plane for an illegal landing. Who is the pilot here?" He motions to Felicity. "Who are _you?_ "

Felicity pulls the stethoscope from her ears before motioning to Diggle on the gurney. "I am Dr. Dunya Volkov, and this man is the pilot," she answers in fluent Russian. No doubt the man mistakes her for a local; in some ways, her Russian is better than Oliver's own, and he spent five years in Russia. "We apologize for any inconvenience, but the pilot had a heart attack." Quieter, she adds, "We did not want to panic the passengers."

Before he can ask any questions, Roy adds in English, "Doctor, his blood pressure is seventy over forty and dropping. He's not breathing!"

"Is he on medication?" she asks. Then she turns to Oliver and Laurel and adds in a Russian-accented English, "Get his luggage! We will check it for medication." Oliver hands two bags to Laurel, taking the rest for himself as Felicity and Roy make a show of their pilot's dropping blood pressure.

The ground control officer starts to protest, but this is Oliver's chance to intervene. "Please, sir," he begs, making his Russian choppy and awkward, like the man would expect from an American. "This man is _dying_. He needs surgery." He motions to a van in the distance. "We need to borrow your vehicle and we need directions to the nearest hospital."

Officer Lagounov surrenders his keys immediately, offering the directions while stuttering a little. Oliver thanks him, waving as he allows Laurel to enter the van before him. He counts heads quickly—Roy at the wheel, Laurel shotgun, Digg glaring from the back, and Felicity pulling his hat out of her jacket—before sliding into a bucket seat in the second row.

The panel door is barely shut before Diggle sits up and starts pulling away the tape of the fake IV from his arm. He's still slower than Oliver, who has already removed his prop wedding ring and slipped it into his pocket. "Next time," he says, leveling a look at Oliver as he slides into the seat next to him, " _you_ need the one taped to a bag full of water." He points a finger at Oliver. "There is _no way_ that should have worked."

"But it did," Oliver can't help but point out.

"Oh, cheer up, Digg," Felicity answers with a grin. "A few minutes ago, your blood pressure was dropping and you were barely alive. You look better already." Both Oliver and Diggle snort at that. "And we're all together again. Roy is driving, you're giving advice, and Oliver is on the jazz." She moves between the seats, linking her arms through both of theirs. "It feels like old times!"

Diggle just shakes his head, a small smile twisting up one corner of his mouth. "You two are just crazy enough to deserve each other."

Felicity shrugs, sliding onto Oliver's lap as if she belongs there. Maybe because she does. "At least I'm in good company," she answers, resting her elbow on his shoulder.

Smiling up at her, Oliver replies, "Took the words right out of my mouth."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter: 15  
Word Count: 4716**

 **Notes:** Shout-out again to ElsieB for being an awesome beta and looking over this.

Sorry for the slight delay in posting; I've been running since I woke up this morning.

 **Important note-type things:** I'm going to have to take a break from posting. Things are pretty wild around here. I'm looking into a second part-time job, and May is when we do rabies clinics (or, in vet med, commonly referred to as "Hell Week"). I haven't had time to write like I wanted, and because of that, I'm seriously behind in this series—which takes a lot more planning than what I usually write.

That being said, I'm going to post next Friday (April 28th). After that, the next post will be June 2.

 **TL;DR: The next two post dates are April 28th and June 2.**

I also hope to use some of this time to work on some WIPs. I've recently gone through and cleaned up my fic folder, and I've realized just how many I have hanging around. I'd like to get those finished and start posting.

I thank you all in advance for your understanding, and I hope to start replying to the backlog of reviews I've missed in my two-week absence. :) Again, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 15  
(Or: "That Time Laurel was an Accessory to Grand Theft Auto")**

Before Laurel can even fasten her seatbelt in the van (a complicated task when Roy is driving), Oliver calls out, "We need to find a parking garage. One with no cameras or security."

Laurel's seatbelt slips out of her hand as she turns back to look at him. But Oliver's attention appears to be buried in the laptop Felicity retrieved from their bags. He balances it on his left leg, as his right is otherwise occupied: Felicity is seated across his right leg, resting an elbow on his shoulder with a stunning smile on her face. It doesn't escape Laurel's notice that Oliver's grin seems to match.

"Oooh, look there," Felicity says suddenly, pointing to the screen. Oliver swats her hand away, and she taps his nose with a turquoise fingernail before withdrawing her hand.

"Why are we going to a parking garage?" Laurel asks.

Her answer is stony silence for a moment, but then loquacious Felicity pulls through for her. "No clue," she admits, shrugging. Or not, Laurel amends. "That's an Oliver question." When that causes the reporter's eyebrows to narrow, she continues, "If you want to know about flying, computers, and hacking, I'm your girl. If you want to know how to fix up a car or steal anything from wallets to elephants, Roy is your guy."

"That was one time," Roy protests from behind the wheel. "And it was your plan."

Felicity skips forward as though he hasn't spoken. "If you want to know how to fire anything from a slingshot to a cannon—or acquire it—Digg is your guy." She pats Oliver's shoulder. "But if you want to see the method behind the madness, if you want to see the bigger picture, if you want to know what makes someone tick, Oliver is the one you ask." In a whisper, she adds, "But he doesn't really like to give away his secrets."

Oliver takes the criticism with a subtle lift of the shoulder Felicity isn't draped across. "A good magician never reveals his tricks," he answers with that wicked smile. "A good poker player never shows his hand. And a good grifter never talks about his con."

Something about that smile is different this time, though. There's a darker edge to it, something much more than mischief. Laurel is sure the devil himself would smile like that. It makes her stomach drop; Oliver wasn't exactly the easiest person to understand before. She folds her hands in her lap, only to find the cold band on her left ring finger.

As she slides it off, Laurel decides she'll have to analyze the last few hours of her life when she finally gets a moment to breathe. First is the fact she's with a band of mercenaries in a foreign country, combined with their varying, colorful personalities: Felicity's blissful daze, Roy's determination to sound gruff, Diggle's quiet yet unnerving confidence, and Oliver's moods that change so fast it gives her whiplash.

Glancing back at Oliver again, Laurel decides he's the hardest read in the group. Now she understands why they've evaded capture for so long: there isn't any lines Oliver Queen seems unwilling to cross. If it suits him to use her as a pawn in his game, he will. If he needs to manipulate people, he does. The ends justify the means, no matter what he has to do to accomplish those goals.

Laurel isn't sure she can work with these blurred lines.

She holds the ring up, offering it back to him. Wary of him or not, she knows this is not the kind of man one shows weakness in front of. "No offense, Oliver," she says, "but I'm done being your wife. Something tells me you only wanted me to run a con."

Instead of Oliver taking the ring, it's Felicity who takes it off her hands. She places it almost in front of her nose to inspect it, and with every second, a scowl deepens on her face. Laurel turns around just in time to jump as the pilot demands, "Oliver Jonas Queen, what the fuzzy kitten is this?!"

Laurel turns with wide eyes, just in time to watch Oliver do the same. He swallows hard as he meets Felicity's eyes, and she examines the ring she's slipped onto her ring finger. "This has to be the most bland, boring, unoriginal design for a wedding ring I've ever seen." She tilts it up to the window, examining it in the sunlight. "I'm not even sure this is a real diamond. Frankly, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you had better tastes than this."

"Felicity, I didn't shop for a set of wedding bands I'm only going to use for a con," Oliver answers in a dry tone. "I picked them up at a pawn shop in the Glades."

"A pawn shop?" she repeats, her voice rising an octave. "Oliver, do you even know why wedding rings get pawned?" It must be a rhetorical question because she continues, "It's because the original wearers are dead and no one cares. Or worse, because the person who had them is divorced and regrets ever having been married." She tilts her head to the side. "Which I can completely understand because the man who picked these out had no appreciation for jewelry at all." This time, she shakes her head, as if to clear it. "The point is that pawn shop wedding rings have bad juju—and that is the last thing your gorgeous yet relationship-phobic ass needs."

"Would you two take the flirting down a notch?" Roy calls from the front seat. "I'm trying not to blow chunks up here."

"If you think that's bad," Diggle replies, "you should be back here watching it."

Their commentary falls on deaf ears as Felicity reaches into the front pocket of Oliver's jeans. The action is so intimate that Laurel's eyebrows shoot up, but his attention is settled on the laptop and he doesn't even tense at his pilot's probing fingers.

Felicity holds up the fake wedding band as a prize, placing it in front of Oliver's nose. "You aren't using these ever again," she declares. "And when we get back, I will help you pick out a decent set of rings, since you seem incapable."

A breathy sound leaves him that Laurel thinks might be a contained laugh. "This isn't my choice of ring, Felicity," he answers. "As you've said, I don't think this is anyone's taste. They're props." Finally he looks at her. "I would pick out something better than that on my own."

The blonde leans in so close that Laurel thinks she might be about to kiss him. "Like what?" she asks. A challenge lurks in her tone that the reporter can't read. But that doesn't mean every instinct in her is demanding she figure it out at some point.

Their noses touch as Oliver answers cryptically, "That depends on the woman."

It's quiet for so long that tension lingers in the air, so thick that Laurel feels she's practically choking on it. Neither one of them moves, but color rises to Felicity's cheeks the longer their contest continues, and she finally reaches a hand up to stroke his jaw before resting her head on his shoulder.

"This feels like coming home," she admits finally, as Oliver's arm winds over her hip. He closes the lid of his laptop and passes it to Digg, who just rolls his eyes. "All my boys together in one place." The smile slips from her face a moment later. "I'm not going back this time. I miss my boys and Billy is quiet and Caitie just isn't the same." She wraps her arms around Oliver's neck. "And it's lonely. I can't talk to you in the middle of the night."

"You can always call me," he suggests, squeezing her knee. Something changes in his expression, something that makes the stoic mask slip for a moment. What lurks beneath isn't pretty, Laurel decides as she watches the guilt play on his face. "It's not like I sleep much." It makes her wonder what he's thinking. "It doesn't feel right with you gone. We're a man down." He winks at her. "Our best man."

Felicity's smile jumps back up to megawatt quality again. "Careful, Mr. Queen," she warns in a lilting voice. "Flattery will get you everywhere." In a low voice that promises flirtation—and maybe danger—she adds, "Maybe even some places you don't want to go."

Laurel shakes her head before turning to Roy. "You weren't kidding about those two."

He cuts his eyes at her. "No offense, Vicky Vale, but you don't get to serve that particular meal." Her eyes go wide for a moment, and he explains, "I saw you all over Tommy at Verdant." Laurel can feel her face grow hot at the call-out. "You were all gooey-eyed, too."

She feels an arm drop on her shoulder, and looks up to find Felicity Smoak leaning forward to smile down at her. "You got a nickname?" she asks, eyes brightening for reasons Laurel doesn't understand. "That's good. Roy doesn't give nicknames unless he really likes someone." She pats her friend's shoulder. "He's a tough nut to crack."

"You should stay away from that, Miss Lance," Oliver warns in a low voice. This time his tone isn't pleasant or even contemplative; it's dark in a way that reminds her that the Oliver Queen seated behind her isn't the same one from the tabloids. This isn't the boy who punches paparazzi, but instead a man forged in the Marine Corps—and God only knows what he did for ARGUS. "Tommy isn't the kind of man who's interested in anything serious." Laurel rolls her eyes. Who said she was looking for anything serious? "If I saw that, I would have intervened earlier," he adds.

"Are you kidding me, Major?" Roy declares, with a glance back at his former CO. "You don't miss anything. How did you not notice your best friend getting all cozy with our client?"

Oliver shrugs. "I don't notice unimportant things," he answers. Laurel doesn't know if that's meant to be an insult or not. "I knew where all five exits were. I could tell you where the bouncers were located—and which ones carried tasers. I could tell you which patrons were carrying guns, and which ones were armed with knives. I knew which people were drunk and could end up being belligerent about it." She watches the corners of his mouth come up the slightest amount. "But if I was looking for flirting and lust at a bar, I would have needed a photographic memory."

His eyes flick back to Laurel. "But be careful with Tommy. He's a good man, but he's skilled in seduction and doesn't have any discretion."

"Pots and kettles, man," Digg adds in a dry tone.

Ignoring Diggle, Roy argues, "But she's our client. The one woman in the bar you really have to watch, and you can't tell when she's getting all hot and bothered by that Merlyn charm?" He shakes his head. "Seriously, how did you ever have any game at all? You wouldn't recognize romance if it started dancing in front of you." He cuts his eyes at Felicity before murmuring to Laurel, "And it does pretty regularly."

"Romance and seduction aren't the same thing, Roy," Oliver answers, turning to the window. "There," he states suddenly, pointing to a white van that probably hasn't been considered new since the eighties. "That one. Pull into the next open space." He sighs as Roy pulls into a nearby space. "The only things romance and seduction have in common are places where they begin. My area of expertise is the latter."

He pushes his door open, and the rest of the team scrambles out in suit. "I find it hard to believe you were ever good at seducing anyone," Laurel admits after a moment. "I thought you flashed a smile, threw some money around, and found the type of women who liked that kind of thing."

When she slams the door, she turns to find Oliver only a few feet away. He places a hand on her arm, pulling her until she can feel his breath on her face. Laurel's eyes go wide, her breathing shallow. Something in his eyes screams danger, but she can't make herself move. "Seduction isn't about offering money or power," he corrects in a low, soft voice, meeting her eyes with his. There's no reading those blue eyes; they seem infinite in this moment. "It's about looking into someone's eyes and making a promise your partner can't refuse.

"If they want to feel powerful, I appeal to their ambition. But very rarely does anyone want that." He pulls her closer, but makes no move. "I find a woman who is lonely in her life. She works hard every day, but she feels detached from the world because her job is to observe. Of the world, but not in the world." The words make the hair on the back of her neck rise at the accuracy of his statement. "So I promise her that I can see her for the amazing person she is. I appeal to her loneliness and promise her that everything she ever needs is right here." He taps the corner of his eye. "I tell her that she doesn't have to be alone anymore."

He releases her without warning, sending her reeling against the side of the van for a moment. He's hot and cold, in a way that Laurel already accepts she won't ever understand. "That's what seduction is," he continues. "Seduction is just another type of con. But instead money or valuables, the prize is sex." He flashes her the barest hint of a smile. "And I think you've already seen what I can do with a con."

And, as though nothing has happened, he walks away.

With shaking hands, she manages to close the van door as Diggle and Roy gather their bags from the back, neither one looking at her. An arm falls over her shoulder, and the hand has turquoise fingernails. When Laurel looks down at Felicity, it's to find that hardened woman who told her where to meet the team. Sometimes, the reporter can't help but wonder if it's a glimpse at the real Felicity. "You did well by earning Roy's trust," she says conversationally. Despite the smile on her face, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Roy's a tough one to break, but you cracked him like a chestnut. That's not an easy task. I'm really proud of you for that."

She turns toward Oliver before adding, "But Roy's also the fastest to open up on this team. Don't let his trust make you think that you can take on Oliver. If you want his trust, you need to get his team to trust you first." Felicity pats Laurel's shoulder. "Until then, challenging him is just going to piss him off. John and Roy and I get away with it because he loves us."

Felicity winks—at least, Laurel thinks it's a wink—before skipping off to catch up to Oliver. The very same man she just portrayed as difficult holds out his left hand as she draws close, and Felicity weaves her fingers through his before bumping his shoulder. A moment later, she's talking to him about rainbow-colored, swallowtail butterflies, twisting her hand out of his grasp to point. With a smile, he pulls her hand from in front of his face, and she latches onto the hem of his shirt. He seems glad to indulge her while motioning between Roy and the vehicle in a slient command.

After shaking her head, Laurel finally asks, "What exactly are we doing?"

"Stealing a van," Diggle answers, as if they do this every day. For all she knows, maybe they do. "It's only a matter of time before air traffic control catches on and reports ours stolen, if they haven't already. So we stay ahead by picking up another vehicle."

Roy suddenly tosses her two bags. "I'm on it," he says as Oliver opens his mouth to speak. From his pockets, he pulls a black leather folio of strange tools. Lockpicks, Laurel realizes a moment later. He slips toward the van, and Laurel's eyes narrow as she tracks the movement.

"Felicity," Oliver calls to the blonde hanging on his shirt. Laurel turns to face them, just in time to watch Felicity smile up at him. "Do you think you can plan a route to the local Bratva front? It's been a while since I've been in Russia," he adds, his voice turning harder and more detached.

The pilot nods, pulling away from him. Laurel can't help but notice that Oliver lingers a little closer anyway. "I'm insulted that you need to ask, Oliver," she answers with a huff.

She reaches for him, but this time she plants the flat of her hand over his back pocket. Laurel's eyes widen, and the unflappable Oliver Queen actually jumps. Everyone seems to tense for a moment, but then Felicity turns a shade of pink that could rival her lipstick as she slides a smartphone from his back pocket.

"I, um…" she stutters for a moment, floundering with her hands. "I didn't mean to touch your butt," she finally blurts. "Not that I didn't enjoy it," she adds quickly, her words taking on a frantic quality. "I did. But I was just reaching for your phone, not trying to feel you up. Although I didn't regret it for a moment and—"

"Felicity," he states, an octave higher than before. Laurel marvels at the way Felicity immediately stops talking. One word, and he manages to communicate with her better than when he uses entire sentences. He rattles off the address in Russian, and she quickly types the address into the phone and starts making pinching motions on the screen, as if studying a map.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Diggle asks suddenly.

"I said it was an accident," Felicity reiterates, looking up from the phone as she colors again. "I didn't mean—"

"Not whatever the hell kind of flirting you two have going on," he clarifies. Laurel thinks there might be exasperation in his tone, but his face remains just as impassive as ever. "I mean the Bratva. Oliver, I didn't think you exactly left friendly with them. And not to mention what it does to your head. You go to a place we can't follow, man. And it—"

"I've already talked to him about it, Digg," Felicity practically growls, her expression somewhat scarier than one of Oliver's glares. Somehow Laurel thinks the one in the group she should never cross is the innocuous blonde pilot who almost always has a smile on her face.

Surprisingly, the argument drops, just like that. Oliver doesn't waste time with it, instead producing another cell phone from the inside pocket of his coat. "Laurel," he barks this time, causing her to jump. "I made you a promise." He tosses the phone to her, and she just barely manages to catch it. "Make your call." It takes Laurel a moment to remember; so much has happened since she demanded a chance to call her father.

Still, she dials the number as quickly as her fingers can manage. For a moment, she thinks he isn't going to answer the strange number, but finally she hears that familiar, welcome, "Lance."

"Hey, it's me," she breathes out in a sigh of relief.

"I've been trying to call you all day," he starts. "Why are you calling from an unfamiliar number? Where are you? What happened to your other cell phone?"

The sudden barrage of questions causes Laurel to smile and roll her eyes at the same time. Maybe that's a quality that only fathers can evoke in their daughters. "I'm fine," she assures him. "I…" She glances over to Oliver for any hint of direction, but his expression is unreadable and his blue eyes suddenly seem like ice. "It's a long story, but I'm in Russia right now. I have a lead on Iris."

"Laurel, what were you thinking?" he demands immediately. The response is so expected that she already knows everything he'll say. "I don't know what she got into over there, but I know that I don't want you in the same mess."

"It's okay, Dad," she assures him as calmly as she can under the circumstances. It falls short; in the last few hours, she's played poker with wanted fugitives and been fake-engaged to a completely unwilling Oliver Queen, who seems to only have eyes for his mentally unstable pilot. "I… I hired a team who specializes in…" Actually, she has no idea what they specialize in.

Oliver seems to understand. "The impossible," he supplies with a smirk that wouldn't be out of place on cat. A cat with a rat's tail hanging out of its mouth, anyway.

"This kind of thing," she finally decides.

"Laurel—" her father starts with a sigh.

"Ooh, ooh, is that Detective Lance?" Felicity demands at the same time, tossing her cell phone to Oliver before reaching for Laurel's. "Detective Quentin Lance of the SCPD? The one who had my file unclassified so you could find me?" She holds out an expectant hand. "Can I talk to him? Pretty please?"

Laurel frowns. "How did you know my father got access to your file, Felicity?" she demands slowly.

The blonde shrugs as though the question is beneath her. "My job is to protect my boys," she replies as though it should be obvious. "I keep track of who goes snooping in our classified files." Her head tilts to the side. "Did you really think you'd go snooping around in our files and we wouldn't know? Or did you think that we wouldn't check into you, too?"

Before she can process that, her father asks, "Did you just say 'Felicity'? Like Felicity Smoak? What the hell is she doing in Russia?"

She sighs, looking between Felicity and Oliver for direction on how to answer that. On the other hand, she isn't sure she can lie to her father. It takes her a moment before she decides to say, "Yeah. It's… it's a long story, Dad, but… she knew how to contact this team—"

"She's insane, Laurel," he interjects.

Laurel isn't quite sure of that herself. Eccentric? Yes. Quirky? Absolutely. Unconventional? Always. But insane? "I don't think so," she admits carefully. Before he can start in again, she adds, "And she wants to talk to you."

He starts to protest, but she hands over the phone to Felicity's outstretched hand. "Hello, Detective Lance," Felicity greets in that upbeat tone. "I'm Captain Felicity Smoak. Well, I used to be. Now I'm Felicity Smoak, but without the 'Captain' part." She waves a hand. "But you already know that, since you have my declassified file sitting on your desk right now."

Turning to two of the three men who know the pilot best, Laurel asks in a low voice, "Am I going to regret letting her talk to my dad?"

Diggle just picks the bags at her feet from the ground. "That's an Oliver question—if anyone can answer that." He shakes his head. "If anyone can understand what the hell happens inside that girl's head, it's him. Louder, he calls to the youngest member of that team, "Roy, get the van opened so I can load these bags. The weapons are heavy."

Laurel turns to Oliver, arching an eyebrow this time. "So is this a bad idea, Oliver?"

"Only if he makes her mad," is his answer.

Before she can ask him to elaborate, Roy calls out, "We're in, Major." He punctuates the thought by starting the engine. "Oh, and the guy left a spare set of keys under the mat, too." He holds them up as evidence as Digg starts shoving bags in the car. "We're in business."

"Took you long enough," both Oliver and Felicity call out at the same time.

Felicity turns back to her phone. "No, not you, Mr. Lance," she assures him. "I was talking to one of my boys." She hesitates for a moment. "You already know about my boys by now, I'm sure. You strike me as the kind of man who does your research, and I know that Colonel Wilson started poking around because you left a trail as long as the Pan-American Highway. That's sloppy policework." She smiles, but there's something eerie about it. "As much as I appreciate your need to understand the people your daughter is running around with, I wish you'd stop. You're putting my boys in danger." Her voice turns to steel. "I don't like it when people do that."

"Felicity," Oliver says, but this time his voice is an octave deeper and an ocean darker. It's a warning.

"I can't presume to know what it's like to be a parent," Felicity continues, "but I do know what it is to love someone." Her eyes immediately flick to Oliver, and for a moment, Laurel wonders how they could think Felicity is the hard read in the group. "I love my boys very dearly. They're all I have. So if you stop looking into my boys, if you pretend you've never heard my name, if you rewind time back to when you'd never heard of Task Force Alpha, you have my word that I'll get Laurel home safely. And maybe her reporter friend with the direction name—"

"Iris West," Oliver supplies, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes that seems reserved exclusively for Felicity.

"Yes, that's it. Thank you, Oliver, my lovely," Felicity answers. Her attention turns back to Laurel's father. "I'll get Laurel home safely. And maybe Iris, too. Do we have a deal, Detective?" There's a short pause. "Good. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Detective Lance. We'll contact you when we can." With that, she terminates the call.

The blonde pilot exchanges a glance with Oliver. When he nods, she uses her fingernails to pull the back cover off the smartphone, ripping the battery out without bothering to turn it off. She slides the SIM card out of place next, bending it in half between her fingers. Unceremoniously, Felicity drops the phone, battery, and SIM card on the ground.

She pats her pockets for a second before Oliver passes her a tiny bottle filled with amber liquid. "That's my Oliver, always thinking ahead," she teases him with a wink. She pops the cork on it, and it's only then that Laurel realizes it's a small bottle of alcohol—probably stolen off their scammed plane. Felicity empties its contents onto the phone. A moment later, she produces a lighter. She flicks it once, causing a flame to jump to life, and then drops it.

It ignites like gasoline.

Holding her hand palm up, Felicity only asks, "Shall we?" Oliver's fingers lock with hers as the blonde slips an arm through Laurel's. "You're really going to enjoy the next part," Felicity confides in the reporter. "The best part is the planning—it's when Oliver goes on the jazz."

It's not the first time she's heard the term, but this time Laurel has the opportunity to ask. "What's the jazz?" she inquires, glancing toward Oliver for an explanation. He doesn't give it, but instead offers a breathy laugh before his mouth splits into a wide grin. Somehow it makes him all the more intimidating.

"The jazz, my dear reporter," Felicity answers after a long moment, "is a sensation that can't quite be put into words." She winks at Laurel. "It's like the first time you go skydiving and jump out of a plane. It's when you take a winding, mountain road at high speed." The blonde shares a grin with Oliver, and a shiver makes a lazy path up Laurel's spine. "Think of it like walking into a casino, laying all of your money on the craps table and winning on the first roll of the dice. You can't walk away after that. They say that the house can't be beat, but you know it can because you just did it."

She squeezes Laurel's arm a bit tighter. "Once you've been on the jazz, you can't walk away."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter: 16  
Word Count: 3639**

 **Notes:** I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I'm so glad to finally share it with you! I'm hoping y'all enjoy it. :) Thanks for reading, and any reviews are appreciated.

 **Remember: the next post isn't until June 2.**

* * *

After an hour in a van with four action-oriented people in Moscow traffic, Laurel decides she's learned more about the team via observation than by interview. In the silence is an honesty that they wouldn't normally trust her with, an inability to be anything but themselves.

Roy guns the van through traffic as though he's playing a video game, laying heavy on the horn all the while-and yelling what Laurel assumes to be expletives in deeply accented Russian. When traffic reaches a standstill, his knee bounces and his fingers drum across the steering wheel. Sometimes he rolls his shoulders and neck to relieve the tension, but it's always with a short, shallow sigh.

Diggle is the balance to his friend's impatience, deeply engrossed in a book of short stories again. The title page proclaims this one as _The Purloined Letter_ , and the only movement he makes is when he flips a page. Despite the traffic and the bumps in the road, he remains as impassive as stone.

Their fearless leader, however, is unlike anything she's ever seen. His eyes dart around the van constantly, yet Oliver never moves. His hands stay folded in his lap, expression neutral as he simply observes the world around him, with as much personal investment as Laurel might have while reading an ad on a billboard. It isn't the first time she's noticed his bouts of detachment from the world, and she wonders what thoughts are spinning through his head.

Ultimately, it's Felicity who draws her attention, though. Felicity is in constant motion, either by bouncing her knee or by flitting around the van in various conversations with her precious boys. With a single phrase, she can draw Roy out of his impatience, Diggle out of his book, or Oliver from his dispassionate silence.

Again Laurel notes how hard their pilot's absence must hit them.

There's a crash from the back as the van suddenly veers left, and Laurel twists in her seat just in time to watch Felicity trying to rise to her feet, amidst all of their bags in the back. "Roy, my _dog_ could drive better than you," she declares with a huff, dusting herself off.

"You don't have a damn dog," is Roy's response as he takes another curve in the road.

Before she can topple again, this time Oliver reaches out and grasps his favorite pilot's forearm. She wobbles a little on her feet, but at least she stays upright this time. "Felicity, honey, why don't you sit down?" he asks her. His eyes dart again, but eventually they land on hers, a lopsided grin coming to his face.

"I can't," she replies, as if he should know that. Laurel bites back a smile as the blonde rolls her eyes. "I don't have any weapons, Oliver!" One arm flies wildly through the air. "Can you imagine? _Me_ , without a gun or a KA-BAR or even one of those baby Swiss Army knives. I don't even have a letter opener." She leans in so close to his face that Laurel thinks Felicity might kiss him. "I feel _naked_ , Oliver. It's driving me crazy." Her head tilts to the side, a slight smile on her lips as she stands upright again. "Well, _crazier_."

Oliver's lips quirk up even more. "Black case," he says after a long moment. "Your Beretta is in the zippered compartment on the lid."

This time she _does_ kiss him—albeit on the cheek. "I love you, too, Oliver," is her response. Laurel isn't quite sure how that makes sense, but judging by the smile that lights up his face, Oliver follows Felicity's fragmented logic. It also causes his face to color slightly, but this time Laurel is certain she didn't imagine it.

In a way, it's hard for Laurel to reconcile the Oliver in front of her with the ruthless and hard one she met… Had it only been this morning? It _had_. The man who had introduced himself to her was stiff and unreadable, but the moment Felicity dances into view (sometimes quite literally), he melts like butter on a hot day. It's only with her that he allows himself to let down all of his defenses.

Laurel is more inclined to believe Diggle's assessment than ever: _The boy loves her so much he can't see straight_.

"Here it is!" Felicity calls, pointing to the bag with a triumphant grin. "Felicity Smoak: one. Luggage: zero." She pulls on it, hunching over. "But it's heavy!" Her eyes turn an unspoken accusation on Diggle. "How many automatics did you put in this thing?"

Diggle doesn't even look up from his book. "Talk to your boyfriend," he answers in a monotone. "He's the one who gave me the shopping list." A smirk comes to his lips. "Mine not to question why. Mine but to do or die."

"You're more than just a soldier to us, my beloved John," Felicity assures him, "but I always appreciate a Tennyson reference." She huffs as she tugs the bag forward a little more. "But, Oliver, next time bring only the essentials. This is about as essential as my mother's suitcase exclusively for shoes."

"Those _are_ the essentials, Felicity," is Oliver's answer.

"That's what my mother says about her shoe bag," Felicity retorts.

Before they can bicker further, Roy slides through three lanes of traffic, amidst horns blaring. Oliver reaches around the seat, his hands going to Felicity's hips, causing her to let out some sort of squeak. With the momentum of the car, somehow she topples into his lap.

Her face is crimson when she attempts to rise to her feet. "I'll say this, Oliver: you sure know how to make a girl feel wanted," she quips to him, a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

After some stammering, a red-faced Oliver finally replies, "I was trying to steady you."

Felicity winks at him. "You can steady me any time you want." His blush actually appears to deepen.

Roy groans. "Could you two stop it?" he demands. "Between you two and this traffic, I feel like throwing up in my mouth a little." He huffs. "I mean, I know you haven't been able to make eyes at each other in almost a month, but you could take it down a notch."

"Take your issues up with Oliver," Felicity replies with a wink as she goes back to the weapons bag, flipping it over on its side. "He's the one grabbing my ass." Her head tilts to the side. "Though I suppose it's only fair, considering I accidentally slapped yours earlier."

Laurel can't quite suppress her smile when Oliver's face turns crimson. "I was just trying to steady you," he repeats, though he doesn't quite look at Felicity when he says it. "If you could sit still or if Roy didn't drive like a Ukrainian cabbie"—that sparks a cry of protest from Roy—"things like this wouldn't happen."

"Roy William Harper, Jr.," Felicity declares, starting to rummage through the case. Laurel can't help but smile when Roy actually tenses at the way his name has been spoken. "You are an angel from heaven, and your driving is an absolute gift. Just for that, you get the best set of throwing knives."

His shoulders relax instantly. "Batty, every damn set of those knives is exactly the same," he retorts with an eye roll. This time, though, Laurel can see the smile playing on his face.

"That's what they _want_ you to think, Roy dearest," is her reply.

He shakes his head. "Major, why are we letting Batshit carry weapons, anyway?" Roy demands. "Her head's so screwed up she might actually shoot one of us instead. Her psycho ass should _not_ be allowed on the streets with a gun." Though Laurel doesn't exactly agree with his phrasing, she'd be lying if she said similar thoughts hadn't gone through her head. She thought they tried to keep mentally unstable people _away_ from weaponry.

She's very glad she didn't ask, though, based on the way Oliver's eyes immediately narrow. All good humor slips from his face as he opens his mouth to speak, but Felicity is faster. She bounces between the two bucket seats in the back so she can wrap her arms around Roy's shoulders. In his ear, she says in the sweetest voice Laurel has ever heard, "That's one, Harper. You don't want it to get to three." She leaves the threat lingering in the air as she pats his shoulder. "Okay?"

Roy nods once, swallowing hard. When Felicity kisses his cheek, he actually flinches. For not the first time, Laurel thinks that the innocuous, bubbly blonde might be the most terrifying member of the group. "So long as we're clear," Felicity assures him, bouncing back to the weaponry again.

A moment later, she drops a set of throwing knives on Laurel's lap. "Hold on to these," is the explanation Felicity gives. "Those are Roy's, but he's driving. You can keep up with his weapons."

Laurel can't help but look down at them: two sheaths with three knives each. The handles are black, and the sets are surprisingly light. Turning to Roy, she asks, "You carry knives?"

"Those are throwing knives," Felicity answers for him. "You can take one out and look at it, if you want, Laurel—they don't bite. Each one is weighted properly so that it will travel with precision." Laurel turns back to glance at her, just in time to watch Felicity slide a set of knives onto her belt. "Roy loves his knives, so he carries a couple of sets." She pulls her sweater over the sheath. It doesn't quite hide the outline of the knives, but Laurel supposes that's what the patchwork pink coat draped across Oliver's lap is for. "I like them, too, but concealment is a bigger challenge for me." She turns to Oliver. "That leaves two sets for you. Do you want both of them?"

It's a moment before he answers, frowning deeper than usual. Laurel can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs the options. "Just one, Felicity," he decides. "I'm not as efficient with a throwing knife as you or Roy, and you might want that other set later."

"She will," Diggle agrees. "That's why I picked up two for her. If we go into an assault, she'll want six. Always does."

"Well, you know I'd share with you, right?" Felicity asks Oliver, dropping down on his lap. She twists so that she's almost facing him before reaching down to clip the sheath to his jeans. Their eyes meet for a moment, and they share another one of those silent conversations. Whatever they say—or perhaps _don't_ say—must be meaningful to them, but Laurel doesn't know their unspoken language.

Felicity's thumb suddenly traces the hollow under Oliver's left eye. His lids flutter closed, and Laurel is almost certain he leans into the touch. The moment seems so private that she turns around in her seat, but she can hear Felicity sigh. "I'm glad you got some rest," she finally says in a quiet voice, laced with the kind of pain that only comes from loving someone. "When I first saw you this morning, you looked like Atlas—the weight of the world on your shoulders." Laurel can't help but nod along with that statement. Felicity nicely summed up her first impression of Oliver Queen: world-weary, tired, and defeated—but still fighting. "You're starting to look like _my_ Oliver again. Like someone took part of your burdens."

"You did," is his reply.

The words are innocent, a simple declaration, but Laurel is starting to understand that Oliver Queen is far better explained by what he _doesn't_ say. His tone does all the work for him, the words released in a single breath. They're spoken like the words of a prisoner set free, like a man who just prevented the apocalypse might declare the survival of the human race.

Laurel feels as though a lightbulb has been switched on in her head. Felicity isn't the only one who feels trapped in a prison. Unlike hers, Oliver's is one of his own making, one he places himself in every time they have to leave her. Though he knows it's in her best interest, he torments himself for it anyway. Perhaps Felicity isn't as mentally unstable as they think; she seems to be the only one who sees past all of Oliver's masks.

Roy clears his throat, and in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot.

By the time Laurel turns back again, Felicity is on her feet. "Let's see… We all have throwing knives." Diggle looks up from his book long enough to arch an eyebrow at her. "Well, all of us that _want_ throwing knives, anyway." She pats his shoulder. "You're special, John, my sweet."

"If by 'special,' you mean he couldn't sink a knife into someone ten steps from him, then he's _very_ special," Oliver adds, with a slight grin at the sergeant.

"This coming from a guy who nearly killed us all with a rocket launcher," Diggle retorts, turning the page.

"Be nice, boys," Felicity calls out, digging through the weapons case again. "So what if you can't use _every_ weapon known to man? I shot the guy before he could hurt any of us, and Roy's hair all grew back. No harm, no foul." Suddenly the blonde frowns. "I have two Berettas in here." She turns, looking between Oliver and Roy. "Who's missing a piece? Oliver, are you carrying?"

He levels a look at her before replying, "Always."

"It's mine, Batty," Roy answers, sliding into a different lane of traffic. "I have a snub-nose I'm breaking in right now, and Oliver told us to pack light so we didn't scare Miss Pulitzer over here." Laurel arches an eyebrow, and Roy shrugs. "It's standard client procedure: pack in case of trouble, not to incite it. He figured that with you being a cop's daughter, you might know what to look for if someone is carrying."

Part of what startled her about the revelation is that Laurel _does_ know what to look for. Granted they surprised her, but she didn't see the tell-tale bump of a barrel in any of the usual places. Digg had been another story entirely, carrying openly on his hip for everyone to see.

Trying to brush it off, Laurel twists in her seat to comment to Oliver, "I thought you liked archery."

Those sharp, hawk-like eyes meet hers. "Bows and arrows aren't Marine standard issue," he snarks in a flat monotone. "Beretta M9s are. They're also much easier to conceal." Even Diggle releases a silent laugh at that one. "I may not like guns, but I know the limitations of archery."

Felicity drops a holstered gun in Laurel's lap. "That's Roy's," she explains. "Roy isn't much of a gun guy, either. Here, hold this for a second, please." Laurel takes a Beretta identical to Roy's, watching as Felicity tries to twist her arms through a shoulder holster. "He likes close-range weapons, like knives." The pilot slips one arm through the holster, but turns in circles as she tries to find the other one.

Oliver takes mercy upon her, holding out the other loop and sliding her arm through it. "Thank you, my lovely," she says with a smile. After a few steps, she plucks the Beretta from Laurel's hands and slides it under her left arm. Tapping Roy's holster, she explains, "The boys like to carry at their backs, under their shirts, but I prefer a good shoulder holster." Tilting her head, she allows, "Well, when I'm in casual clothes. When I'm wearing a dress, I have a leg holster and a small-caliber Walter." She shrugs. "Thigh isn't exactly easy access, but no one is going to get close enough to find it. Not without getting a knife in the throat first, anyway."

Suddenly Felicity's face lights up. "Oh! That reminds me!" She dives for the bag again, and when she stands next to Laurel again, it's with a knife that people could have nightmares about. Laurel might have one that size in her kitchen, but she'd never think about _carrying_ such a thing.

Felicity must mistake Laurel's staring for interest. Slowly she unsheathes the knife, flashing a gleaming blade with a curve to the tip and serrations close to the hilt. "Guns are great, arrows are fine, martial arts work in a pinch." She sticks the blade under Laurel's nose, and she stops breathing until Felicity pulls it back and sheaths it. "But never, _ever_ underestimate the versatility of a good knife." With a wink and a too-bright smile, she adjusts the sheath at the small of her back.

Roy groans. "Batshit, don't freak out the client with your knife-worship psychobabble. If you scare the hell out of Louella Parsons over here, she probably won't pay us." Laurel opens her mouth to protest, but Roy holds up an index finger. "Hey, you wouldn't be the first to try and fleece us. You'd just be the first to get away with it." He motions lazily to the back of the van. "Because of the Sara connection, we can't exactly break your thumbs and have Felicity rain digital hell down upon you."

Felicity laughs. "Remember that time I put a bad client on the No Fly List?"

"She's very good at raining digital hell," Diggle adds, almost as an afterthought.

"I've never broken anyone's thumbs, Roy," Oliver disagrees. "That's what seedy loan sharks do. We're better than that." Laurel turns back, trying to decipher his tone, and his eyes lock with hers. "I just put the fear of God into them until they pay up. And if that doesn't work, I go to Plan B." One corner of his mouth lifts. "I'm not nearly as nice then."

As much as she wants to ask him what part of his personality qualifies as _nice_ , Laurel manages to bite back on the urge before it gets her into trouble. Sliding between her seat and Roy's, Felicity adds, "Oliver is an expert in all of the dark arts—and I don't mean the Harry Potter kind, though that would be kind of cool." She slides backward so she can cup his face. "He might be sweet and loveable most of the time—"

"When does that start?" Roy mutters under his breath with a snort.

"—but sometimes it's hard to remember that when you're strung up by your ankles at the docks," Felicity finishes, ignoring her friend. A moment later, though, she slides up to flick his earlobe in retaliation.

"I was different then," Oliver states, crossing his arms.

"That was two months ago, man," Diggle replies, looking up at him and arching an eyebrow.

By the time he finishes, Felicity is draped across Oliver's lap again. "Right, a whole two months," she agrees, patting the major's shoulder. "Can you imagine how many times we've changed since then?" Her eyes sparkle as she waves a hand. "I mean, if you change just _once_ a day and assume thirty days in a month, that's sixty iterations away from who you are today." She leans across Oliver for a moment, as if sharing some great secret. "I don't know about you, but I change more than once a day. You wouldn't even recognize the person I was this morning when I woke up."

Oliver makes a sound low in his throat that Laurel thinks might be a laugh. "Somehow I doubt that," is his only remark.

She shakes her head, and Laurel wonders again what it must be like in Felicity's head. "Well, you'd recognize me because I still look the same, but I mean, who I _am_ changes every day. Sometimes I wake up thinking one way and go to bed thinking another." She waves a hand. "My point being that two months is a lot of time to change." She cups Oliver's face. " _I_ believe that you've changed since then, Oliver."

Roy snorts. "The only one of us that's certified crazy is the one who believes you, Major," he comments dryly. "Not exactly the vote of confidence I'd be looking for."

Felicity sticks out her tongue at his back before saying, "Well, in my professional opinion—"

He doesn't let her finish. "The only professional thing about you, Batty, is the kind of help you need for your head."

This time Laurel sees Felicity's eyebrows narrow for a moment before her face splits into a saccharine smile. "That's two."

Blanching, Roy immediately offers, "I'm sorry, Felicity." The apology surprises Laurel of its own accord—she wouldn't think Roy is the apologetic type—but it's also the first time she's heard him call Felicity anything other than a variation of _Batshit_. For reasons she doesn't understand, he seems to give the situation great weight.

After bouncing forward to kiss his cheek, Felicity pats it so hard it sounds more like a slap. "I'll always forgive you, my dearest Roy," she assures him with sincerity, "but you're still at two. I don't accept take-backsies when you hurt me."

Though he opens his mouth to say more, Felicity doesn't allow it. "John, I found one of your Desert Eagles in our weapons jackpot," she tells him, turning back. "Do you want it, or have you packed something else? I think there's also a Sig in there."

"Thanks, Felicity, but I have what I need," he assures her. "I'm carrying the Glock and the other Desert Eagle." He offers her a hint of a smile. "And a new pistol. It fires non-lethal rounds. I've been looking for a chance to try it out."

"You and your guns," Oliver mutters, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Digg snorts before replying, "At least I use weapons from this century."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter: 17  
Word Count: 3491**

 **Notes:** Hey, all! Sorry about the delay; my Internet was utter crap this morning, so I couldn't post.

This one is posted without going through the beta first. It's not as good as it would be with my beloved ElsieB, but I hope you don't mind.

Just a little scheduling for you: the June 9th post is going to be another thing in the Ace of Hearts series, just in time for Pride Month. June 16th will be back with this one.

In the meantime, I'm also working on Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon, so look for some other posts every week. ;)

Thank you so much for reading! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 17  
(Or: "That Time Oliver Found an Alternate Revenue Stream")**

The sun is just starting to rise in Moscow as Oliver opens the sliding panel door of the van, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His muscles ache from the sudden lack of tension, stuff from so much pressure for so long. The moment he breathes in the crisp, morning air, even stale from the pollution and the smell of the city's nightly misadventures thick in the air, he feels like a convict escaped from prison.

Which, incidentally, was what he was the last time he was here.

A gentle squeeze of his hand draws him back, and when he turns, Oliver finds himself staring into a set of familiar blue eyes—ones that some people dismiss because they're foggy, but he's always found Felicity's gaze piercingly clear. The corners of her mouth tick up, as if she can't bear the thought of frowning even for a moment. In that regard, Felicity has long been his opposite; while Oliver carries his demons with him, it's Felicity who can manage a smile even when her own senses betray her. Though he's tried to show her enthusiasm for life before, he finds himself falling short.

"Ready to seize the Russian day?" she asks him with a wink just as unique as she is. "I've been itching to see the home of the worst organized criminals in the world." She frowns. "Or maybe it's the 'best-organized criminals.' You know, with a hyphen." Felicity draws one in the air for emphasis. It pulls the corners of Oliver's mouth upward, and hers mirror the gesture. "But that doesn't sound quite right, either. Maybe the 'most infamous organized criminals'? That sounds more accurate." She waves a hand flippantly. "The point is that I'm ready to explore Mother Russia in all of its glory." As quickly as the smile appeared, it vanishes. "Unless you want me to babysit the client while the boys' club gets to meet the Bratva."

Oliver had plenty of time to think about Felicity's role during the trip, plenty of time to plan how best to approach Anatoly—and which members of his team would be best. With no hesitation, he offers her a hand out of the van. "Anatoly will make the mistake of underestimating you," is his response as he helps her out of the van, "but I think we can use that to our advantage." His eyes burn into hers for a moment. "I wouldn't think about walking in there without you by my side."

A dusting of color rises to her cheeks, but so does a smile as she rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you say that to all the girls," is her remark, slapping his arm lightly. Though it always gnaws at him, he expects the response; it's all she'll ever say after his rare moments of complete honesty. One day he'll make sure she knows how much she's worth to him, but for now, Oliver knows that path will lead only to misery.

"I don't need a babysitter," Laurel interjects hotly, giving him the distraction he needs. This he can work with—this is just planning, which is far more familiar territory. Felicity has a tendency to drag him out into deep, emotional waters where he can't stay afloat. He has yet to decide how he feels about that; while he's slowly learning to swim, he's also in far more danger of drowning.

Glancing up, Oliver replies, "It's not a good idea for the Bratva to know your name or face, Laurel." The reporter's expression hardens into something he's seen on Sara's face far too many times, but he doesn't give her a chance to protest with that razor-sharp Lance fury. "It's our job to save Miss West, not yours. We may need your reporter credentials later, but it's better if I handle the Russian mob myself." Turning to Roy, he adds, "You're on watch."

Roy snorts, sinking into his seat while crossing his arms. For a moment, Oliver is speared by a touch of guilt; as the youngest, he knows Roy sometimes feels alienated from the rest of them. Though the former Marine major would much rather have the young pickpocket by his side, someone has to save Laurel from herself and Roy's volatile moods and sharp tongue make him more of a liability than an asset in the upcoming meeting. Combined with Diggle's calm assessment of a situation and Felicity's ability to speak Russian like she was born in Moscow, Oliver would be a fool to consider Roy first.

While he may have been accused of that in the past, it's been a very long time since Oliver has been a fool.

After a brief moment of indecision, he finally admits to Roy, "Private, I need you here this time." It's their code of sorts; Oliver wouldn't be much of a CO if he couldn't communicate with his team, and any display of emotion would just make both of them uncomfortable. While the boy may have the misfortune of reminding Oliver of a younger version of himself, he also has a strong respect for every person's place on the team. Despite sentiment, they all have a role to play, and Roy's is often less dignified than the others.

That doesn't mean those roles aren't appreciated.

Despite a long, weary look, Roy finally nods once. Oliver offers a salute in thanks, which the private returns. "If anything suspicious happens, call and take cover." With a hand, the major motions to Diggle. "You're going to play the muscle. Felicity…" The moment her eyes narrow, he hesitates. In a skin-tight dress, a pair of fishnets, and a fur coat, anyone would buy her as his latest fling, but Oliver already knows how that suggestion will end: with mysteriously malfunctioning electronics for the foreseeable future. "Just… be yourself."

"If you're assigning roles, shouldn't she be a prostitute?" Laurel asks, frowning. She glances at the blonde. "No offense, Felicity, but in that last con, they wanted _me_ to be the hooker." Motioning between them, she continues, "I thought we all have parts to play." Vaguely, Oliver remembers the words as ones Roy said to her on the plane.

As Oliver scrambles for words, Felicity winks at the reporter. "I'm his favorite."

When Laurel glances to him for confirmation, all he can offer is a shrug.

"That and if the major pisses her off, she'll set his phone on fire," Roy adds.

Felicity scoffs, crossing her arms. "It would only be a small one," she protests. "I wouldn't ever try to hurt Oliver." She clings to his arm, and he doesn't know if it's for her support—or maybe for his. "He's my favorite, too." As if to punctuate the thought, she kisses his arm, and that familiar warm feeling spreads through Oliver's chest again. She has a funny way of doing that to him.

Roy mutters something under his breath, but Oliver ignores it as the beginnings of a plan begin to form in his head. Glancing down, he asks, "Can you get me a credit card? I need to pick up a few things."

Instead of answering, Felicity only marches toward the sidewalk, bumping into someone in the process. After a brief conversation in Russian, she skips back to Oliver with a plastic card in her hand. "Anything else I can do for you?" she asks, holding the card out for him to take. Wishful thinking makes him hear a double entendre in her voice.

For the sake of his sanity, Oliver elects not to respond, simply taking the card from her and sliding a hand across her shoulder as he passes. "Keep in touch, Private," is all he offers over his shoulder before walking away. He can feel Felicity and Diggle hot on his heels as he turns out of the alleyway.

Three blocks, a premium bottle of vodka, and a little credit card fraud later, the three of them walk into the nightclub, Oliver with the bottle in hand. It's deserted in the early morning hours, staffed only by a few employees and a couple dubious men in suits with Bratva tattoos. While Oliver may be mapping out exits, he knows the two soldiers with him will be surveilling the scene in their own ways. Digg probably knows which men are armed and with what, whereas Felicity, appearing to casually check her phone, is probably hacking into a nearby wireless network so she can manipulate their security cameras.

No sooner than he notices the group, the bouncer marked with Bratva tattoos walks up to them, addressing Oliver alone. He studies Digg for a long moment, but barely gives Felicity a glance. "We are closed," he declares in Russian. "You have no business here."

In response, the major simply pulls the neck of his sweater down enough to flash the star on his left pectoral. "I am Bratva," he replies. His Russian should be rusty from disuse, but it comes flooding back to him after a brief moment of hesitation. "I'm here to see Anatoly."

"He is not in," is the stubborn bouncer's reply. He assesses Oliver once more before adding in accented English, "Especially not for American."

Not allowing his frustration to show on his face, Oliver answers with a stony expression in his native tongue, "Tell Anatoly that Oliver Queen is here to see him."

The challenge in his voice must be thick enough because the man immediately removes his cell phone from his pocket and dials a number. In the process, he flashes a tell-tale bulge of a high-caliber handgun under his arm. Good; Digg's a fast draw and his guns are more accessible. Oliver glances over to a nearby table. If things get ugly, they can flip it for cover and slide behind it. Not that the bouncer will get off much more than two rounds; if Oliver and Digg don't finish it with a headshot, Felicity will with a knife to the throat.

The conversation is brief, spoken in rapid-fire Russian. Clearly the man is aiming to confuse Oliver with quick phrases, but his language skills aren't so rusty that he can't decipher it. Either way, the Bratva enforcer is no match for Felicity, who picks up languages like most people pick up fast food. What the major might not understand, his pilot will.

When he closes the phone, the bouncer only grumbles, "Anatoly will see you now." Oliver tries his best to keep the smugness out of his grin, but judging by the other man's face, he doesn't quite succeed. "I will take you to him."

John tenses immediately, but Oliver only nods once. He doesn't like the idea of being led blindly into what could be an ambush, but he doesn't see any other choice in the matter. The sergeant throws a look at his CO to send a clear message—one of mostly expletives and warnings—before following. Felicity, however, stays on the bouncer's heels, vibrating with so much pleasantness she's nearly skipping with every step.

Though his eyes stay trained on the Bratva enforcer, Oliver watches his peripheral vision for Felicity, knowing how easily she can be sidetracked. Sure enough, she is, stopping to discern the décor on a wall in the corridor. Frowning, the major gathers her with a hand at the small of her back, urging her up the staircase ahead of him. At the top of it, the path splits in two, and he has to catch the sleeve of her coat before she wanders down the wrong corridor.

Though it's something he'll never ask her about, he can't help but wonder about her progress with Dr. Snow. If she's backsliding, he needs to know. Maybe with a little encouragement and a closer watch on his favorite zoomie, he can prevent it from getting as bad as it was the last time. Being on the run makes it more difficult, but something tells Oliver that Dr. Snow will answer his questions and take his calls, despite his fugitive status.

As the bouncer knocks on the door, the major locks his arms behind his back, feeling the cold steel of his Beretta at the small of his back and wishing it was his bow. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Diggle slide a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, finding comfort in his Sig. A gleam pulls his attention to the right, just in time to watch Felicity slide a blade next to the hot pink band of her smart watch.

The door opens a moment later, and a slight man with a full beard stands on the other side, holding his arms out with a wide smile. Oliver can practically feel his team relax. "Oliver, my favorite American," Anatoly declares, pulling the major into a surprisingly tight hug. He waves to his enforcer after releasing his so-called favorite American. "Nikolai, leave us. I have much to discuss with an old friend." He nods at Oliver as Nikolai descends the stairs again. "It has been too long, yes?"

Not long enough in Oliver's opinion, but he'd never admit such a thing to Anatoly. It would be too much like confessing weakness—something the Bratva would try to exploit. "It has," he agrees readily enough, as the fellow captain leads the three of them into the spartan office. The major stops at the door to offer the bottle he brought. "A friend once told me never to visit a Bratva captain without a gift."

Anatoly claps his shoulder with a smile. "This is why I like you, Oliver," he answers, pointing a finger. "Always listening." He motions them all in again. "Please, come in, all of you."

Oliver takes lead as they enter the room, less hesitant than the others. The office is small, with no personal embellishments—not that he expected those—but the furnishings indicate his acquaintance's authority. Behind the mahogany desk is a small table, and a bottle of vodka is laid out upon it. It's mostly pristine, except for a rust-colored stain on the carpet that Oliver remembers all too well. The last time he killed for the Bratva, it had been here.

Before the dubious businessman can ask, Oliver motions to the sergeant, whom Anatoly is already watching with calculating eyes. No doubt thinking how he can turn a man that looks like he can hunt a bear without weapons. "This is John Diggle," Oliver introduces. "He's part of my team."

Immediately Anatoly shakes John's hand, patting his elbow. "If you are with Oliver, then you are my second-favorite American," he declares. "Welcome to Russia." He turns to Felicity next, but his appraisal is far less clinical. Before she can be introduced, he comments to Oliver in Russian, "I see you have brought your woman." He leans in to give advice. "You should be careful. She is beautiful enough that my men will try to steal her away from you."

"I don't belong to anyone," Felicity replies in Russian so smooth that it puts Oliver's to shame. "And any man who tries to touch me without permission will answer to _me_."

Throwing her a warning glance that she cheerfully ignores, Oliver clarifies, "This is Felicity Smoak." He shifts in place. "Felicity is part of my team, and she is more than capable of taking care of herself."

Despite the veiled warning, Anatoly makes a show of taking her hand and kissing her knuckles anyway. Felicity crosses her eyes when his head is bowed, and it takes everything Oliver has to maintain a straight face. "I hope he has at least called you beautiful," Anatoly remarks, throwing a glance of disapproval at his fellow Bratva captain. "Bratva man should always recognize a smart, beautiful woman by his side."

Felicity doesn't answer as Anatoly turns his back, only crossing her arms with a cocky smile and a wink. If Oliver's face suddenly turns warm, it's for other reasons entirely. "Always the problem with you, Oliver," Anatoly continues, oblivious as he opens the new bottle of vodka. "Too progressive for own good. Strong, beautiful women have value, but most of my men do not respect this." He turns to offer an exaggerated shrug. "They still think best use for woman is warming bed."

He motions for them to sit in the three chairs in front of his ornate, mahogany desk, and Oliver and Diggle comply at once. Felicity moves a little slower, taking off her peacoat and draping it over the back of her chair. It puts her shoulder holster and throwing knives in full view, but Oliver supposes that's the point. She crosses her legs and the stiff leather creaks underneath her.

"I'd be happy to help change their minds," she offers.

Anatoly's booming laugh is her answer. "I see why you like this one, he comments to Oliver. "She has spirit." Turning to Felicity, he adds, "That will serve you well." He sinks into the chair with the now opened bottle of vodka. "I know you would not be here if you did not need something. What can Bratva do for you, Oliver?"

The question is what he can avoid bringing the Bratva into, especially when he needs their intel. On the other hand, he also doesn't need one of the world's largest criminal enterprises involved in his mission. After a brief hesitation, he begins, "There was an American reporter who was taken into custody a few weeks ago. She was covering a story on government corruption here." He leans back in the chair. "The men who took her had Bratva tattoos."

"You always ask for impossible," the Bratva captain declares. Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver watches as Felicity nods a few times in agreement. Absently, he pinches her arm in retaliation as Anatoly releases a long sigh. "As you know, Bratva has always… _influenced_ government."

"And by 'influenced,' you mean 'bribed,' right?" Felicity asks, slapping Oliver's hand away. He shoots her a look of warning, but she only shrugs.

"Same thing," Anatoly dismisses with a wave of his hand. "Well, your reporter comes in at bad time to stick nose in government business. Someone has been paying officials more money to ignore us. Some of my men were paid to walk away, and they answer to this new boss." He shakes his head before cursing in his first language. "When reporter girl shows up, they stop her before she can make trouble." He leans forward. "What is your interest in this, Oliver?"

The three members of the unit exchange glances, and eventually they turn to him for permission. Oliver finally nods at Digg, who explains, "We're a freelance team. Someone hired us to bring the girl home." He crosses his arms. "Her parents are concerned."

Oliver refrains from rolling his eyes. _This_ is why Diggle isn't allowed to con: he can't find the right tactics to play them. He might be able to read the major like a book, but he doesn't understand motivation—or leverage. Appealing to Anatoly's sense of family is pointless; in the Bratva, no one knows anyone's real name. They aren't allowed personal attachments.

With the lift of an eyebrow, Oliver adds, "We'd undermine this new mafia and take her back to America, where she wouldn't cause trouble."

Now Anatoly leans forward. "You do this for us, Oliver," he replies in a quiet voice, "we will get you what you need. Housing, equipment. Money, drugs, vodka, girls." He laughs a moment later, dismissing the last ideas. "I forget who I am speaking to. You do not do these things. I get you guns."

As if insulted, Digg chimes in, "Oh, we _have_ guns."

After pulling a pen from his pocket, Oliver takes a post-it note from the edge of Anatoly's desk. On it, he writes a number. "You told me when you released me five years ago that if I ever work for you again, you play by my rules," the major answers. He slides the note toward the Bratva captain; for his part, he doesn't even blink at the obscene number. "That's the cost of my services. Plus expenses. If I need something, you get it—no questions asked. Payment to be made after successful completion."

In offer, Anatoly only extends a hand. "You have expensive tastes, Oliver," is all he replies, "but I think that you are worth cost of doing business." Oliver takes the extended hand, and suddenly the Bratva captain returns to the bottle of vodka, pouring each of them a shot. "And now, we drink to your success." He places the last glass in front of Felicity. "Unless the lady cannot, for some reason?" His eyes flick to Oliver. Both of their expressions turn into frowns.

Felicity lifts the glass up in salute before declaring, " _Prochnost_."

Each of them throws back a shot as Oliver wonders if he made a deal with the devil.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter: 18  
Word Count: 3081**

 **Notes:** Sorry I'm a little later tonight than usual; I've had a migraine over the last few days, so this didn't get finished the way it should have.

This is hot off the presses and unbeta-ed, so any mistakes are my own.

As a side note, you'll probably see some updates slow down over the next few weeks. There's a lot going on in my personal life, and I'm trying to get resettled in a new town and starting school again. I'll give an official notice later on, but you're definitely going to see biweekly updates here. In the meantime, I'll still be working on Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon prompts, and there are a few other things I'll be posting from time to time. (There's a new Monsters fic with my beta, as well as a couple of other things lingering around.)

 **TL;DR: You'll see the next update here June 30, and biweekly from then on out.**

Always glad to hear from you if you have the time. If not, I thank you deeply for reading! :)

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Lived in a Hangar")**

When they reach the outskirts of town, Laurel is certain that Oliver's directions are faulty. Judging by the look on Roy's face, she isn't the only one; every _turn left_ or _turn right_ makes him level a glance at his fearless leader. The amazing part is that, even still, he follows the direction without question or explanation. From all she's known of him so far, that seems beyond Roy Harper.

"How much longer do you want me to pretend we _aren't_ following that car three ahead of us?" the boy in the red hoodie finally declares. _That's_ more like what Laurel was expecting. She leans around the front passenger seat to glance at the car in question, and she frowns as she remembers it turning ahead of them a few minutes ago.

"Just until we make this next turn," Oliver replies without missing a beat. It's amazing, Laurel thinks, how no trace of that snark appears on his face. The only expression on his face is a furrowed brow, probably trying to concentrate as he writes in the notepad in his hands. "We're almost to the location."

"Any reason why you don't want to _tell_ us where the hell it is?" Diggle asks, though his nose is still in his book. This time he seems highly engrossed in something called _Paul's Case_ in his book.

"Oliver doesn't want to ruin the surprise," Felicity explains, leaning between his and Laurel's seats. She practically vibrates with the new excitement. Though her eyes are still a little glassy, they're brighter now. "If he tells us now, my beloved John, we'll be biased by our initial thoughts. It's a much more dramatic reveal if we see it for ourselves." She's on her feet a second later, bouncing up to the first row of seating to lean over the major's shoulder. "Am I going to like it, Oliver?"

"I can't think of anywhere else you'd feel more at home," he answers, mouth lifting in the barest hint of a smile. He reaches a hand around her waist, pulling her into his lap. "Now, come here before Roy's driving throws you out of the van." The man in question protests, but it's lost a moment later as Oliver's smile turns the slightest bit playful. "Why is it you can never sit still? I'm tempted to tie you down."

Felicity winks. "I didn't know you were into that kind of thing, Major."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Captain," he answers with a laugh, though his cheeks redden.

She salutes him, nearly hitting him in the eye. "Gutter vacated, sir," she declares.

He pulls her hand away from her forehead. "I'm not your commanding officer anymore, Felicity," he reminds her, his tone suddenly gentle. Suddenly Laurel remembers what Roy said about Oliver's relationships: _no subordinates_. That still doesn't solve the _no romance_ problem, but for someone who doesn't do romance, he has a lot of it with his pilot. "You don't have to salute me." He releases her wrist before saying in a dark voice, "And don't _ever_ call me 'sir.'"

Her brow furrows a moment later. "What do you mean?" she asks. "How could you not be my CO? Do you not remember all the missions we flew in…?" She glances back to make eye contact with Laurel. "It's classified." When she turns back to Oliver, Felicity continues, " _You_ were the one in charge."

"Felicity, honey," he starts gently, "we were dishonorably discharged for robbing the bank." His grin falters, and the whole team turns somber at once. "They said we didn't have orders, and the Colonel was killed. They made us go to jail, but we escaped." She blinks at him a few times, and Oliver's indulgent smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You don't remember, do you?"

She contemplates that for a moment. "That's a big thing. I should know that." She tilts her head to the side. "How did I forget that, Oliver?"

"You have intermittent memory loss, Felicity," he answers in an even tone.

Groaning, she replies, "How do I keep forgetting that?"

At the same time, a building comes into view and Laurel can do little more than gasp at it. "Is that…?" she asks slowly. "How are we going to stay in _that_ for a few days?"

She gapes up at the hangar in front of her. It's clearly a private one, gone unused for so long that it's starting to fall down. The metal is rusted and parts of it are barely covered. It certainly isn't any sort of retreat, and Laurel thinks she's more likely to get tetanus than save her friend while staying here.

Felicity leans forward, placing her hands on the dash as she stares up at the building. "Oh, she's _beautiful_ , Oliver," she breathes. "Is there a plane? Is there a library? Is there a sleeping bag shaped like an alligator?" Oliver laughs. "Do you know how many times I've had dreams about living in a hangar?"

"Probably twice as much as you've talked about it," Roy answers with an eye roll. His smile contradicts it.

Oliver only grins at his pilot. "It happened to align with our interests this time," is his excuse. Laurel is new to this team, and even _she_ isn't buying that. Roy rolls his eyes with a sigh, and Diggle even shakes his head before burying it in his book again.

Roy pulls to a halt behind the black sedan. A small man with a bushy, full beard steps out of it. Oliver joins him a moment later, and the Russian waves at him with a friendly smile. Laurel frowns; she expected the Bratva to look more… _fearsome_.

Laurel glances around to the rest of the team, watching them all pile out. "Should I…?" she starts, motioning to the door. As if sensing her question, Oliver turns to look at her, beckoning her forward with a hand.

She exits the van then, and Diggle hovers next to her as she joins the team. Oliver talks to the man in a Russian far less choppy than he did during his con. The Russian's eyes land on Roy. "Oliver, I did not know you let _child_ in your team," is what he says.

"Roy's twenty-one and the best mechanic I've ever known," is Oliver's reply. Roy stands a little straighter at that. He grins at the man, but there's darkness in his voice as he adds, "You should know by now not to question my team, Anatoly."

Her eyes widen as she recognizes the name as Oliver's Bratva contact. She didn't expect an echelon in the Russian mob to be so conversational—or affable, for that matter. "No question, Oliver," he assures, patting the major's arm. Laurel wonders if anyone else notices the way he tenses under the touch. "Just surprise." Anatoly chuckles. "Always unconventional thinker." He leans in to ask, "Remember the time you stole nuclear device from Kremlin for us? They _still_ think it disappeared in puff of smoke."

Laurel's eyebrows shoot up—as do Diggle's and Roy's—but Felicity only laughs. She leans in to stage-whisper to Anatoly as though they're old friends, "That's nothing. One time we stole a giraffe from the Starling City Zoo." She waves a hand. "We gave it back, though. We only needed it for a con." He releases a booming laugh, and Laurel vaguely remembers covering the story of a giraffe that vanished and reappeared twenty-four hours later. She wonders how many _more_ random mishaps were caused by the A-Team. "Her name was Adelaide," Felicity continues, "and she liked eating carrots out of my hand."

"Simmer down on the crazy, Batshit," Roy grouses.

Anatoly immediately turns toward Roy. "Is that what you call her?" he asks, brow furrowing. "No way to talk to a lady."

"She's _crazy_ ," is the only explanation the private gives. " _Legitimately_ crazy."

"I'm certified and everything," Felicity supplies helpfully.

Oliver clears his throat, stopping to level a look at both of them. "Harper, shouldn't you be carrying in our supplies?" The private flips him off before marching back to the van, grumbling. Diggle just pats Roy's shoulder as he joins him. "Speaking of cons," the major starts in a much more civil tone, "I have a list of supplies I'll need you to provide." He proffers the piece of paper from his notebook. Laurel just shakes her head this time; always one step ahead.

"Fake identification for all six of you," the Russian remarks, shrugging. "That is standard." As he looks through the list, Anatoly's brow creases more by the second. "Helicopter with _gulag_ transport markings?" he asks.

"It doesn't have to be in working order," Felicity adds, her tone cheerful. "I can always fix it up. And as long as I know how to mark it, I can do the paint work myself."

Anatoly moves down to the next item on the list. "'Luxury sedan'?"

"That's negotiable," Oliver assures him. "I can make it work with a forty-year-old cargo truck, if you have it. It doesn't have to be in working condition. They haven't created a vehicle Roy can't repair."

"And that brings us to next item," the Russian replies. "'Cargo truck that will pass prison gates.'"

"That doesn't have to be working, either," the major replies.

"Twenty kilos cocaine?" Anatoly asks this time. Laurel's eyebrows shoot up.

"That's a _lot_ of drugs," Felicity mutters to her former CO.

"It doesn't have to be cocaine," is Oliver's reply, given with a shrug. "I'd take marijuana or speed or even Vertigo, if you have it. Just an illegal drug and enough to get jail time."

"'Four guard uniforms for _gulag_ ,'" Anatoly continues. "'Two women's, two men's.'" He mutters something in Russian. "And sizes listed."

"I'm going to need those exact sizes," Oliver adds. "We don't have time to tailor them." As an afterthought, he continues, "If transport pilots have different uniforms, I need that first women's size in a pilot uniform."

Jumping up and down, Felicity grins as she yells, "I get to be a Russian prison pilot this time!"

"You _always_ get to be the pilot, honey," Oliver replies with an indulgent smile.

"'Short, form-fitting dress with lace accents, US size four, with fishnet stockings'?" Anatoly's eyebrows shoot up, and Laurel's follow.

Felicity tugs at the hem of Oliver's shirt before whispering, "That's not my size."

"I know," he leans down to assure her.

With one choice ruled out, Laurel knows who will be stuck in that getup. "I'm not wearing that," she declares, crossing her arms.

Cold, blue eyes focus on her, Oliver's expression a thundercloud. "I don't remember asking you to," he answers in a sharp tone. He's amiable as ever when he turns back to Anatoly. "That's non-negotiable. I need those exact specifications. Black, if you have it. It's her favorite color." He punctuates the thought with a smile that's all charm—more than Laurel ever thought he was capable of. He pats Anatoly's shoulder. "That should be a good start—I'll let you know if anything else comes up."

Running a hand over his face, Anatoly only answers, "I will see what we can do, Oliver—no promises." He holds up the list. "I will call you with information. Until then, this hangar is yours. Has running water and electricity, should you need it." He offers his hand to shake, and Oliver takes it. "And remember, if anyone asks—"

"We broke in," the major finishes for him with a grin.

Anatoly takes Felicity's hand, placing his lips to it. For the first time, Laurel actually catches Oliver rolling his eyes. "Always a pleasure, Miss Felicity," he declares, placing his other hand atop hers. With a wink, he adds, "You will keep eye on our former captain, yes?"

"For you, I'll keep _two_ on him," Felicity answers.

With a wave, he departs, leaving Laurel to stare after the black sedan making tracks on the gravel. Before she can say anything, the blonde pilot loops an arm through hers, practically dragging her up to the hangar. "I know you don't like it, but believe me, this is _much_ better than our last place." She winks. "The last one didn't even have running water, and Oliver doesn't like it when you bathe in the stream."

"That's because you have no concept of modesty," the major answers, keeping stride with the two of them. "It's not about you bathing in the stream, Felicity. It's about you _joining_ me while _I'm_ trying to bathe in the stream." Laurel thinks Oliver's cheeks might be pink, but it's hard to tell when he won't look at them.

"I don't like cleaning up outside by myself," is Felicity's reply. She releases Laurel to wrap her arms around herself, shuddering once for effect. "It's kind of creepy. There are wolves out there." She squeezes Oliver's hand, threading her fingers through his. "I feel safer when I'm with you."

"I usually feel like _you_ get me into trouble," he retorts without skipping a beat. Felicity sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs. He pulls her hand from his, but attaches her fingers to the hem of his shirt. She latches on readily.

They slide through the door together, and Laurel draws behind, staring up at the high ceiling of the hangar. Everything seems to be relatively intact, if not a little old. "Did you scope it out?" Oliver demands of Digg and Roy, though he seems to expect the answer to be _yes_.

"It has running water and even a shower," Diggle answers instantly. "Looks like the Bratva used to use this landing strip as a way to transport illegal goods. I think we can use it for long-term, if needed." A small smile comes to his lips. "Do you have a plan?"

Oliver's eyes brighten with mischief that immediately makes Laurel tense. "I _always_ have a plan," he answers, one corner of his mouth lifting. He passes a cell phone to the blonde hanging off his shirt. "Felicity, honey, I need blueprints for the _Koshmar Gulag_ , please." She starts typing before the words are even out of his mouth. "I remember there was a helicopter landing strip, and that they keep male and female inmates separated."

"Copy that," she answers absently. The captain pauses a heartbeat later. "Or is it 'roger'? I can never remember which."

Laurel waits for him to answer, but the major is beyond hearing at this point. She can practically see the gears turning in his head at this point. If there's one thing certain in this world, it's that Oliver Queen is more than just a pretty face. "I need the blueprints to refresh my memory, but I think we can make this work with a three-man crew outside." He nods to Roy. "Private, I'll need you in the cargo truck with me to make it past the gates. We'll need some sort of armor plating, just to be safe."

"You want it, you got it," is Roy's reply, with a sharp nod.

"Diggle, you're our inside man," Oliver continues. "You'll be arrested and thrown in with the men's general population." Laurel's eyes widen when he turns to her next. "Laurel, you're going to be in the helicopter. Miss West will need a familiar face after all of this." He smirks. "Not to mention the hell we're going to rain down on the _Koshmar_." Laurel swallows.

A second later, Felicity tugs on Oliver's sleeve with wide, blue eyes. "What about me, Major?" she asks. "Where do I fit in?"

"You're the pilot," Oliver answers. "I need you to be familiar with the grounds. You'll have to fly a few missions for them over the next couple of days, to establish your cover." He glances down at her. "Can you do that?"

She pockets the phone, standing straight and clicking her heels together. She salutes before replying something in Russian, mouth set in a stern expression that seems wrong for her face.

The major nods once, mouth turning down into a scowl. "The problem is that we need an inside woman, too. Someone who can enter the _gulag_ in the women's section and contact Iris to let her know our plans." He turns to Laurel. "You would be the ideal choice, but I can't turn you loose in a Russian prison. You don't have any training."

"I do," Felicity answers immediately.

" _No_ ," Oliver answers flatly.

The blonde pokes him in the shoulder. "Oliver Jonas Queen," she declares. All three men wince at her tone. "I have _told_ you time and time again _not_ to do this." She pokes him again. "I am _not_ made of lace. I am a captain in the goddamn Air Force, and I am a better shot than _any_ of you with a Beretta. You are not allowed to protect me just because I'm a woman or because my brain is all broken. I am just as much a member of this team as _any_ of you."

She reaches to poke him again, but Oliver doesn't let her this time. He flattens her hand out between his. "I know," he assures her in a gentle tone. "This has nothing to do with you being a woman." He places a hand to the side of her head, and she closes her eyes as she leans into it. "Or your brilliant mind." They share a smile. "I can't have you in a Russian prison when I need you to fly the helicopter."

" _Oh_." She looks away, face flushing. "Sorry."

Oliver kisses the top of her head. "You have _nothing_ to be sorry for," he assures her. "We need another woman who can defend herself and can infiltrate a Russian prison." His eyes brighten. "And, if possible, give the guards absolute hell." He glances down at the blonde. "Does anyone spring to mind?"

Instead of answering, the pilot merely pulls her phone out and dials. Oliver reaches for her, but Felicity dances out of his grip. "Hi there," she says after a moment, grinning from ear to ear. "You don't know me, but we have a mutual friend who has a proposal for you. Can you hold for me, please?" There's a slight pause. "Thanks. You're a doll." The blonde offers the phone to the major before whispering, "It's for you."

He glares daggers at Felicity as he says in a shaky voice, "Hey, Sara, how soon can you be in Moscow?"


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter: 19  
Word Count: 4744**

 **Notes:** I'm sorry again that this is late, y'all. For those of you who didn't catch my Tumblr post, I was caught up in real life stuff. My mom's coworker decided to sabotage his computer at the same time my _real_ job picked up, and I'm also trying to move two hundred miles away.

(As a side note, if you're ever wondering about an update, you can check my Tumblr.)

This chapter was partially delayed because Sara decided to be difficult, but I think it answers some questions you guys have had for a while. :)

I probably won't have much time to answer reviews over the next week, but I promise I'll do my best, should you choose to do so. This is my last day off until next Sunday, so between moving, working, and computer repair, I'll have more going on than I know what to do with.

That reminds me... Happy Fourth of July to all my American readers. :)

Again, reviews are awesome, but thank you for just taking the time to read this. I look forward to hearing from y'all.

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen  
(Or: "That Time Sara Met a Helicopter Named Myrna")**

Sara Lance is having a weird day.

As she disembarks the plane, squinting against the dusky glow in front of her, she frowns at a silhouette waiting by the gate. While his back may be to her, she _knows_ it's _Oliver goddamn Queen_ waiting there, and she shakes her head. If someone had told her she'd be flying to Moscow to meet her ex today, she would have laughed. Now that she has Russian soil under her feet and a bad case of jet lag, Sara has lost her sense of humor.

While his presence at the airport is expected, she also thought she'd have to _call him_ first. To know when she'd arrive, Ollie would have to know her departure location. If she were normal, that wouldn't be a big thing, but because her wife is a _Delta Force commando_ , Sara and Nyssa's home address is highly classified. _Her father_ doesn't know that. Apparently, though, Ollie does—and also knows her encrypted, unlisted phone number. That can only mean he has a hacker on his side—and a damn good one. Not every hacker in the world can break through that kind of security.

No wonder they've evaded the MPs for two years.

Honestly, she doesn't know why she's surprised. Ever since she's known Ollie—when she was fresh out of boot camp and he had just been busted down to Lance Corporal again—he's been playing these kinds of mind games. He always manages to show up where he shouldn't be, with _just_ the right timing. Something tells her it has to do with the ARGUS missions he did right out of boot camp, but he doesn't really talk about those.

Shifting her carry-on bag over her shoulder, Sara marches right toward him. It's been three years since she's seen Ollie in person, but he looks like he's aged more than that; his eyes droop a little at the corners and his shoulders slump as though he's carrying the weight of the world on them. He hasn't shaved in a few days and his hair is a little too long for the standard high-and-tight, but the smirk on his lips is unmistakable. He might be a little worse for the wear, but he still looks the same Oliver underneath.

Because she doesn't know where they stand, Sara shifts awkwardly on the balls of her feet. The last time she stood face-to-face with Ollie, they were together. All the things they once had in common are gone now. After a moment, she final greets him with a soft, "Ollie."

When he offers a slight smile in response, Sara can't resist: she drops her bag on the ground before wrapping her arms around his neck. He tenses under her touch first—just like always—but then he slowly returns it with one arm.

It lasts two seconds before he pulls away, offering in an even tone, "Sara." It's cool and calm, as though he meets her in an airport every day and he didn't randomly call her to Russia.

"Sara," he returns in an even tone, as though he meets her in an airport every day. His gaze travels across her, but it's clinical and analytical this time. "Married life suits you," he declares without warning. "You look like you're doing well."

"You don't," she returns, unable to let the rebuke slip by. While no one would argue that he's attractive, the dark circles under his eyes are pronounced and there's a new line in his forehead that wasn't there three years ago. "You look tired, Ollie." Her voice softens with concern. He might like to think he's invincible, but Sara isn't convinced.

Ollie's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. For a moment, Sara she has to bite back a smirk. He might like playing games when he's the one in control, but now that she's turned the tables, he doesn't look too thrilled. "It's been a tough ride," he offers by way of explanation. She snorts; she's forgotten his gift for understatement. Instead of elaborating, he takes steps toward the exit, forcing her to follow behind.

Catching up to him a moment later, Sara places a hand on his shoulder. He lifts his eyebrows in a silent question, and Sara blurts, "Laurel. Is she okay? She isn't used to this life, Ollie. My sister doesn't know what it's like to sleep in a strange place every night or how to field-strip a rifle. This isn't her world."

He levels a look at Sara in response. "She might not be a soldier, but she's tougher than you think, Sara," is his reply. Lifting a shoulder, he adds, "My team makes sure she's taken care of. Digg set her up in the most defensible room in base, and Roy has kind of a soft spot for her." He snorts. "Not that he'd ever admit it." His eyebrows knit together. "Do you really think I wouldn't keep your sister safe?"

Before she can do more than balk at the question, he's walking again, effectively ending the conversation and leaving her no choice but to scurry after him a second time.

Though she expects Oliver to lead her toward some sort of expensive sports car, he doesn't. Instead, he leads her toward a black panel van that probably wouldn'twouldn't look more out-of-place if he parked it against a curb in Starling Heights. "Could you be more conspicuous?" Sara can't help but ask. "This thing wouldn't look more suspicious if you advertised free candy on the side."

She grins at Ollie, waiting for him to replysmile back, but his stoic expression never wavers. Tough crowd. "That's kind of the point, Corporal," he says instead, fixing her with a hard look she's only ever seen him aim at difficult subordinates at the past. "If it looks suspicious, people will pay attention to what's _inside_ the van. They won't pay attention to the people coming _out_ of it." He opens the passenger door for her. "Now, get in. We have somewhere to be."

Leveling a look at her friend, Sara does as he asks, throwing her bag into the back. She waits until he's in the driver's seat and the van is running before she asks, "And you are going to tell me where somewhere is, right?"

"No," is Oliver's answer. The smile that comes to his lips makes a shiver crawl up Sara's spine—not that she'd ever admit it. "I'm going to _show_ you."

Somehow she refrains from sighing. Typical Ollie—always giving cryptic answers. The part that unnerves her is that he used to be lighter and less sullen. Sometimes, very rarely, she could understand what was going on in that head of his. Now, he might as well be a stranger. Whatever has happened to him in the last three years can't have been good.

"I heard about what happened to your team," she finally admits quietly, breaking the thick silence. "My first thought was that they set you up. There was no way you'd rob a bank unless you had orders." This time she does sigh, but in frustration. "There was nothing I could do to help."

"I've told you before, Sara," he reminds her in an even tone. "No one is going to save me." The words come flooding back from wildly different circumstances. The last time he said that phrase, he was going in for a suicide mission for ARGUS. His hand grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn pale. "I didn't _want_ help. I wanted to help _them_ , but they wouldn't let me." Sara knows the feeling; she's tried once or twice to save Ollie from himself. Even now it's a hard pill to swallow: she can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped.

The chuckle that follows his statement is bitter. "I tried to take responsibility for the whole thing," he admits to her quietly. "My team wouldn't let me."

Despite the topic, Sara laughs. "Loyalty is a two-way street," she replies. "The people you're willing to die for would also willingly die for _you_. _Semper fidelis_ , Ollie." When she nudges his shoulder, he tenses a little. Sara makes a mental note: no touching. "Always faithful. Sounds like you've put together a good team."

 _Finally._ The smile she's been aiming for lights up his face. It makes him look more like the Ollie she knew three years ago, the one with bright eyes and a wicked smirk. "They're the best," he declares with a confidence unlike any she's ever seen.

Sara nods knowingly. "The legendary A-Team."

The smile slips away just as quickly as it came. "We don't call it that."

Idly, she wonders if children could play on his mood swings at the park. Twisting in her seat, Sara turns toward him. "I've heard the stories, you know," she tells him. "They say you and your boys are supposed to be unstoppable." She smiles before adding conspiratorially, "I heard you boys stole an elephant. That you flew some sort of rig made from a lawnmower. That one of your boys built an RPG launcher."

"All true," Ollie assures her with a wink and a wicked grin. "It was more like a cannon than a rocket launcher, but it packed one hell of a punch." A soft smile breaks through that hard façade, and Sara can't help smiling back. The old Ollie makes a return. "I knew to make the team work, I'd need a weapons specialist, a mechanic, and a pilot." As he takes a curve at high speed, he shrugs. "I didn't realize they'd have other skills. My weapons specialist isn't just a marksman with every weapon known to man—he can build them, too. My mechanic can steal a wallet out of your hand without you realizing it." Something softens in his expression, something Sara can't quite identify. "And my pilot is a genius."

Her brow furrows. "I thought there were just three of you."

"There are three of us _on the run_ ," Ollie corrects. "Our pilot has… alternative living arrangements."

Cryptic as ever. Sara knows that tone, though; that subject is closed, and he won't say anything more on it. That hasn't stopped her from pressing in the past, but she has limited time and making Ollie cave can take as long as weeks. They don't have that kind of time. "That sounds mysterious," she teases instead, which only earns her a warning look. Okay, message received: subject closed. "Speaking of mysterious, who is the cutie that called me?" She winks. "Do you have a secretary?"

A smile twists the set of Ollie's mouth immediately, bright and sincere. "That would be Felicity," is all he offers in explanation as he turns onto a barely-paved road. He meets her eyes for a moment, all humor draining out of his expression. "And if you refer to her as my secretary, she'll probably kill us both."

"And who is this Felicity?" Sara asks as he slows the van to a crawl.

Ollie shuts off the car. With a nod in front of him, he answers, "Ask her yourself. We're here."

Sara glances up at the remains of an old private hangar. It doesn't really look _safe_ , per se, but she's slept in worst places. At least this time, there isn't any sand to coat her skin in a fine grit. She shuts the van door, staring up at it. "Nice digs," she quips. "Did they throw in the tetanus for free, or was it extra?"

He doesn't even turn around to throw her a look. "Say what you want, Lance. It has its own appeal."

"Maybe if you're a junk collector," she shoots back, taking a few long strides to catch up.

When Ollie slides the door open and they step in, it's almost like stepping into another world. A convoy truck sits in one corner with the hood up, next to a car with a cover over it that looks suspiciously like the sports car Sara expected. In the very back is a helicopter, parts of it army green and others white.

The first thing she fixes on is a familiar brunette. Instead of pencil skirts, Laurel is in jeans, but she still wears a maroon button-down and heels with them. Some things never change. When she turns away from the helicopter, it's with streaks of green paint across her shirt and a wide smile on her lips.

Sara barely drops her bag on the ground before she's enveloped in a huge hug. She stumbles backward a step to keep her balance. "It's been a while, Sara," Laurel declares in greeting. "How are you? How's Nyssa?"

"Everyone is fine," Sara assures her as she pulls away. She motions to her sister's clothes. "What are you doing, Laurel?" Grinning with mischief, the corporal adds, "I haven't seen you this messy since we were kids in art class."

With a motion to her clothes, Laurel explains, "I'm helping Felicity paint the helo." The sudden, new use of the slang _helo_ doesn't escape Sara; she's picking up jargon from the team, if nothing else. "It took me a few tries to figure out the spray paint."

A kid in a red hoodie, carrying what looks like a carburetor, walks past. "No one was safe," he adds, motioning to the matching green patches on his jacket. He shifts the part to his hip and thrusts a hand covered in black grease in Sara's direction. "Good to see you again, Corporal. PFC Roy Harper."

His face is familiar enough that she places a scathing wit and tough front with it: the kid some of her fellow Marines used to call _Abercrombie_. Not really her first choice for Ollie's dream team, but he's always been good at seeing things others can't. Sara shakes the extended hand. Black grease comes off on her fingers, but black has always been her color, anyway. "Good to see you again, Private," she answers with a smile. "And thanks for watching out for my sister."

Though he reddens, Harper just snorts. "I'm not a babysitter," he replies. He shrugs a shoulder toward Laurel. "She can take care of herself." He levels a look toward the brunette. "Unless you turn her loose with a spray paint can." He scoffs. "And they say _war_ is hell. I'd rather go back to Iraq than watch that shit."

With that parting shot, he walks away. Laurel sighs. "He doesn't like me," she tells Sara with a frown.

"Yes, he does," Oliver replies. "Roy treats you the same way he treats the rest of us." Sara laughs at that, but Laurel opens her mouth to argue. Ollie doesn't let her. "Have you seen Digg?" He motions to the blonde. "I want Sara to meet the team."

Sara glances between them for a moment, frowning. Usually the only time she sees Ollie this disinterested in a beautiful woman is when he has another in his bed—and even that doesn't always stop him.

Frowning, Laurel answers, "I think the last time I saw him, he was loading up Roy's truck with a small arsenal." Leaning in toward Sara, she adds, "I think he even has _explosives_ in there."

"He should," Ollie says, already on the move. "I told him to get enough to breach the Kremlin." Sara glances at her sister, who simply shrugs. Figures; Ollie is cryptic and slow to trust.

"Why the hell are we breaching the Kremlin?" Sara demands, following him.

"We aren't," he assures her in an even tone. He's quiet a moment before allowing, "At least, not until Plan X. Plans A through W don't involve the Kremlin." Stopping so suddenly that Sara runs into him, Ollie turns to face her. He glances down her figure again, but this time there's more appraisal there. "I think you could pass for a hooker with a drug problem."

He tries to turn away, but Sara grips his arm, turning him back to face her. "You need to explain that sentence. _Now_." Her voice turns dark at the edges. His expression turns stony in response, and she pokes him in the shoulder. "Ollie, I'm not part of your precious team. I don't take orders from you. So if you want me to follow your lead, you better explain _why_."

Sighing, Ollie levels a look, even though he sighs in defeat. "I need you in the women's wing of the _koshmar_ to make contact with Miss West," is all he answers. "I'm thinking a prostitute with a few kilos of cocaine might do the trick."

When he starts to walk away, Sara spits, "Why can't you use your Felicity?"

Ollie whirls immediately, eyes narrowed and jaw tight. Sara swallows; she used to know Oliver's triggers, but maybe he's developed a few new ones. "That's the plan," he says in a dark voice, laced with a strong warning, "and that is your part in it. I don't have to explain myself to you, Corporal." The subtle reminder that he outranks her is not lost on Sara. Bastard. "If you don't like it…" He motions behind her. "You can leave the same way you came in."

A man twice Ollie's size comes around the side of a truck, crossing arms the size of bowling balls over his chest. "Oliver, this plan doesn't work without her," he chides in a voice that manages to be gentle and hard at the same time. He offers a small smile to Sara. "Sergeant John Diggle, former army. I know you're a Marine, but I'll try not to hold that against you."

Sara takes the extended hand as Ollie answers coldly, "I can always make a new plan."

"Oliver Jonas Queen," a new voice declares, light but fierce. Ollie _winces_ under the weight of it. "Are you being a stubborn ass again?"

Both men turn, and only then does Sara see the woman who puts the fear of God into Oliver Queen. With her bare feet flat on the ground, she doesn't even reach his shoulder and is a fraction of his size. Yet as she crosses her arms over a black graphic tee, Sara can understand his terror. Her blonde hair is threaded through the back of a USMC baseball cap that looks like the one Ollie owns, shading her eyes and glasses. The little blonde focuses on him with a thundercloud of an expression—something not easy to do when wearing bright pink lipstick that matches the paint on her fingernails and toenails.

While Ollie is scrambling for a response, Digg replies, "I think the expression is 'stubborn as a mule,' Felicity."

She barely throws him a glance as she continues glaring at Ollie. "I know," she replies, and Sara has to bite down on a laugh. "The question still stands, Major." For some reason, the use of his title makes Ollie wince again, and Sara wishes she had popcorn to watch this play out. "Are you or are you not being a stubborn ass?"

"Felicity—" he starts.

"Don't 'Felicity' me," she interrupts. "Don't throw me the puppy eyes and try to weasel your way out of this." The blonde makes a face. "I just mixed my animal metaphors, but you know what I mean." This time Sara can't stop the laugh that bubbles out. "You told me yourself we need Sara for this. Has that changed?" Silence is her only answer, but Felicity takes that as a victory. "Tell her what she needs to know, Major."

When she turns to Sara, it's though a switch has been flipped: her lips turn up in a smile that lights her whole face. Holding out a hand, she says, "Hi! We spoke on the phone. I'm Felicity Smoak. I'm a Captain in the Air Force. I think. Or, at least, I used to be." Her brow furrows adorably as she thinks about that. Ollie even grins, and by the look on his and Diggle's faces, she knows Felicity has them wrapped around her finger.

Sara glances down to the other woman's shirt and smiles. An airplane engine with wings in front of crossed wrenches is proudly displayed, along with the words, _I am an aircraft mechanic. Of course I talk to myself when I work; sometimes I need expert advice._

Sara barely takes the extended hand when Felicity pulls her in for a hug instead. The corporal can feel her eyes go wide, but she awkwardly returns it. "I'm the pilot," Smoak proclaims when she finally releases Sara. With a wink, she adds, "That's why I can't be the hooker with the drugs. Oliver needs me in the helo. But at least you'll get to beat up a few Russian prison guards."

With a breathy laugh, Sara can only reply, "You're cute." Felicity blushes, which jacks up her adorable factor a few notches. "I think I can kick some ass if you'll be waiting for me at the end," the corporal adds with a wink.

"You say that now," Roy says in a dry tone as he walks up to the group. Laurel follows just a few steps behind. "But that's because you've never flown with Batty before."

With a roll of her eyes, Laurel assures her sister, "She's a great pilot. Roy is afraid of flying."

"No one asked you, Vicki Vale," Harper pops off in reply. "She might have had _one_ good flight, but don't compare it to eighty missions with her behind the wheel. Batshit has nearly killed all of us at some point or another."

"You got to let it go, man," Digg says with a shake of his head. Oliver nods.

"But I _didn't_ , Roy dearest," is Felicity's reply, wrapping her arms around the kid. "A lesser pilot would have, but I didn't." She winks at Sara again. "If there's one thing I can do, it's _fly_." As if to punctuate the thought, she makes a motion with her hands like a plane taking off. With a tap to her head, she adds, "It's everything else that's a little fuzzy."

Ollie—I'm-allergic-to-humor _Ollie_ —laughs with a smile that softens his features before assuring her, "You remember the important things."

The pilot smiles back at him. "Of course. I remember my boys." She bounces over to poke him in the chest. "I remember _you_." Her eyes go wide. "Oh, I forgot: I have the front end of the helo finished." She leans into Ollie's side to point at it. "Isn't she beautiful?"

He isn't staring at the helicopter when he replies, "She is."

Sara glances around the team for clarification, but it's just in time to watch Harper roll his eyes and Diggle shake his head with a smile. When she glances over to Laurel, it's to earn a look that says, _I'll tell you about it later_.

Oblivious to his staring, the pilot continues, "I think I'm going to name her Myrna." She nods once to herself. "She looks like a Myrna. She dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. "Laurel has been helping me. She's a good painter." She frowns. "I tried to get her to sign it, but she won't do it." Beaming, Felicity adds, "So I signed her down at the bottom."

"What the hell, Batshit?" Roy demands, throwing a hand out to the helo. "This is supposed to be a _prison transport_ helo. You can't sign your name to it."

Felicity kisses her fingertips before replying in a horrible Italian accent, "If imma gonna paint it, imma gonna sign it."

"Somewhere in the world, logic is crying," Roy replies in a dry voice.

The captain only shrugs. "Logic and I were never friends, anyway. Logic is a boring stick in the mud. Spontaneity is a better friend. So is imagination." She beams. "Imagination and I are best friends." Poking Ollie in the shoulder, she adds, "I am _very_ imaginative. Aren't I, Oliver?" For the life of her, Sara can't tell if it's an innuendo or not.

Apparently she isn't the only one. Ollie turns to Felicity to ask, "Are you flirting with me, Miss Smoak?"

"Maybe," is her response, gathering her hands behind her back. The corporal scoffs at that; if Felicity isn't flirting, then Sara is straight. "I think that depends on what you can handle, Mr. Queen."

In an attempt to diffuse all the shameless flirting in the air, Sara remarks, "I kind of figured you'd be the one handling the helo. We all know you're a control freak. I thought you wouldn't be able to stand someone else in the pilot's seat."

With complete seriousness, he answers, "Felicity has forgotten more about aircraft than I'll ever know."

"Literally," Roy mutters under his breath.

With no warning, Felicity rounds on him. "That's three," she declares. The thought is punctuated by a beautifully executed right hook that lands on Harper's nose. Sara winces when she hears bone crunch, and he doubles over with a series of expletives as he holds a hand to his now bleeding nose.

Shaking her stinging hand, Felicity continues as though it never happened. "Please," she scoffs. "Oliver couldn't handle my brave little Myrna even if she came with instructions." She points. "Which she _doesn't_. Instructions are for _guys_ ," she concludes, spitting the word like an insult.

"Felicity, honey," Oliver says in a gentle tone, directing her attention to him. She whirls with wide eyes. "Why did you punch Roy in the face?"

With a sunny smile, she answers in a cheery tone, "Because he's an idiot." She waves her left hand for emphasis. "I love my dear Roy, but that doesn't give him the right to hurt me by saying mean things." She shrugs. "So I had to break his nose and make it bleed. That's how it works. Idiocy and nosebleeds share a direct correlation." When she pulls her bottom lip into a pout, she asks, "Am I in trouble, Major?"

"Of course not, Captain," he assures her without missing a beat. Roy makes a sound of protest, but Oliver silences it with a glare. "Go ice your hand before your knuckles bruise, okay?"

Felicity nods once before kissing Oliver's cheek. "Thank you, Oliver, my lovely!" she calls, skipping off to the other side of the hangar.

"Oliver, what the hell?" Harper demands in a nasally voice. Sara barely holds in a laugh. "She just broke my goddamn nose and—"

Oliver crosses his arms, and Sara is certain his icy glare drops the temperature in the room ten degrees. "Private," he says in a dark voice, "do you remember what I warned you about when you joined this team three years ago?"

Though being on the receiving end of an Oliver glare is enough to make lesser men crumble, Sara has to mentally tip her hat to Roy when he stands his ground. "You expect nothing less than one hundred and ten percent," he repeats in a hard tone. "We better give it to you or you'll take it from us yourself." He motions behind him, to where Felicity disappeared. "I _have_ given you that, Major. From day one. And I don't—"

"No," Oliver counters. "Not when you joined, but right after." His voice turns colder—if that's even possible. "What did I tell you when you decided to bully her?" Roy starts to protest, but if Ollie has a superpower, it's shutting people down and pissing them off. Today he seems to be in rare form. "Don't try to argue. You decided on _day one_ that you needed a target, and we both know all the reasons why Felicity is a good one." There's no mercy in his tone. "So _what did I tell you_ , Private?"

Sighing, Roy replies, "Felicity may be sweet and happy on the outside, but she's the strongest person you've ever met." He touches his nose again, wincing. "If I ever upset her, you wouldn't be able to save me from her." His eyes narrow. "You wouldn't _want_ to, either, because if I upset Felicity that much, I'd deserve everything I got."

"Exactly," Oliver replies without missing a beat. "I told you to remember that. So as far as I'm concerned, your bloody nose is your own fault. The next time she gives you warnings, you should listen. Get back to work, Private." He starts to walk away before calling over his shoulder, "And clean up your mess—you're dripping blood everywhere."

Roy flips Ollie off to his back before turning his glare on Sara. "Welcome to life in Task Force Alpha."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter: 20  
Word Count: 3159**

 **Notes:** (Is a "come-to-Jesus meeting" just a Southern thing? If so, it means to pull someone aside and—another Southern favorite—jerk a knot in their tail. :P)

First of all, I'm sorry this is so late. My internet has been a disaster the last few days.

Second of all, Ezra (my muse) is an asshole and I'm sorry.

As always, I love to hear your thoughts, but thank you all just for reading! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 20  
(Or: "That Time Laurel Had a Come-to-Jesus Meeting with Oliver")**

Watching a piece of tin flap in the freezing wind above her head, Laurel blows out a quiet breath. The bed beneath her creaks as she turns over to check her watch, squinting and tilting it to catch the moonlight. Four o'clock in the morning, and not a wink of sleep yet. Somehow she prevents herself from groaning. Days in the A-Team start early, and she knows that in an hour, Felicity will be shaking her awake with a song or a rhyme.

None of those thoughts help her to fall asleep, however. Tomorrow—well, _today_ now, she supposes—is the day of the mission. By tonight, she'll be taking Iris back home to her family. Or maybe she won't. Though Oliver isn't exactly the type to share his plans, Laurel isn't an idiot. It's going to be risky and dangerous. Some of them might not come back home.

But if they don't try, Iris _definitely_ won't.

It's the fear that keeps her eyes open. She knows it. Since she arrived in Russia, nightmares have been plaguing her. Images of her old, childhood friend dying—of her _new_ friends dying. Sometimes the death is even her own. Usually the exhaustion of eighteen-hour days with the A-Team is enough to make her sleep, but tonight it's impossible.

The amazing part is that everyone else sleeps so well at night. She's seen Roy and Felicity collapsed in their sleeping bags multiple times, watched Oliver and Diggle wake up refreshed in the mornings. No matter what they might face the next day, all of them manage to push it aside for a few hours of sleep.

Maybe she could talk to someone about it. Not Oliver, who doesn't sleep well or often, running on fumes—and barely tolerating her during waking hours. Digg's advice would be too practical: something along the lines of _When you need to sleep, you'll sleep_. His opposite would be Roy, just as unhelpful in his practicality: _It's not hard, Vicky Vale. Lie down, close your eyes, and clear your head. Go try it right now and leave me the hell alone._ No, Laurel needs to find someone softer and gentler, someone with inventive solutions and—

That puts an idea in her head that she wishes had occurred to her hours ago.

Sighing, Laurel sits up in bed, on the moth-eaten twin mattress that serves as the only bed in the hangar. Her feet slide across the ground in an attempt to find her flats, and when she finds them, she slides them on. With slow, careful steps, she moves toward where the doorway should be. Her feet shuffle against the floor in an attempt to dodge Sara, who is happily snoring away in her sleeping bag on the floor.

Somehow she manages to make it down the stairs without falling, then past Diggle and Roy's sleeping bags. Diggle sleeps quietly and peacefully, but she can't help a smile at Roy, whose snoring sounds like a chainsaw as he drools into his pillow. If only she could sleep like that. Maybe with more dignity, but that soundly, at least.

The empty green sleeping bag in the corner doesn't surprise her, but the absence of a fourth does. Laurel frowns. Between Felicity's blatant disregard of privacy and her love of the boys, Laurel thought she'd be here—possibly draped across the other three. Her eyes fall on the empty sleeping bag again. If Oliver is awake, he'll be with her.

And if Felicity isn't with her boys, there's only one other place she'd be.

As she slides a door back to the hangar, Laurel squints against the light, frowning. At first glance, it appears empty, but then she barely discerns a shadow in the corner next to the helo. Her steps pick up as she finally recognizes the figure sitting against the wall. Oliver's leather jacket is draped over his lap as his chest rises and falls with even breathing, head fallen forward and shoulders slumped. It makes her pause for a moment; now more than ever, Oliver Queen looks like he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

On his other side, there's a fluffy sleeping bag shaped like an alligator. Between all the padding, Laurel can just barely discern the shape of someone inside it. She smiles despite the early hour, even as it turns into a yawn. A sleeping bag like that could only belong to Felicity.

When her steps pick up again, Laurel sends a can of paint skittering across the floor. The reaction is instant, and it takes Laurel a moment to notice those piercing blue eyes over the top of the black handgun trained on her. The moment he recognizes her, he relaxes with a huff, scowling. More than usual, anyway. "Laurel, what the hell are you doing out here?" he grunts out, voice rough with exhaustion. "Go back to sleep." His Beretta disappears to wherever it came.

Her hands fall on her hips as she squares her stance. Oliver Queen might be more of a challenge than she's willing to take on, but Laurel will be damned if she's going to let _anyone_ talk to her like she's an unruly child. "Don't let me interrupt your sleep," she answers with a smile and a wave of her hand. It earns her the glare she was hoping for. "I'm here to talk to Felicity."

As he shifts on the floor, his eyes close and his head falls back against the wall. "You can talk to her all you want in fifty-two minutes," is his clipped reply. How he knows the exact time is beyond her. His hand goes to his lap, and belatedly Laurel notices the blonde hair peeking out from under his leather jacket. It nearly swallows her whole, but blue fingernails hold it close to her. "Felicity is asleep. I suggest you try it."

"Felicity most certainly is _not_ asleep," a third voice cuts in, her voice a raspy whisper. A lazy smile appears on Felicity's face as she burrows deeper into Oliver's lap. His arm falls over her in response, and she takes a moment to press a kiss to his palm. It's enough to put a soft smile on his face. It manages to make him look a few years younger—and like he hasn't been sucking on lemons all day. After clearing her throat, Felicity adds, "I've been awake for the last hour."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Oliver asks. "I would have shifted so you could get up."

"And miss some quality snuggling?" she replies with a scoff. "Not on your life, Oliver Queen." She motions to the helicopter. "And besides, Myrna couldn't handle any more of my tinkering. We were up until one adding the final touches." She opens a blue eye to focus on Laurel before adding, "That's why Oliver is so grumpy—he didn't get his nap out."

"'M not grumpy," he mutters, words already slurring with sleep again.

Felicity squeezes his knee. "Oliver, my lovely, you're the only one who thinks that."

All at once, both of Felicity's eyes open wide and she sits up in a flourish of blonde curls, nearly knocking her head against Oliver's jaw in the process. He makes a face, but otherwise doesn't move. "Oh!" she breathes out. "Did I forget to show you where I put all the feminine products?" Laurel glances over to Oliver, but the pilot dismisses the concern with a wave of her hand. "My boys were with me every day for two years. Nothing fazes them anymore." Her head tilts to the side. "Except Roy. Roy's sweet, but he's squeamish."

"It's not about that," Laurel assures her after a moment. "I, um…" She takes a deep breath. "I'm worried about how today will go," she confesses in a sudden rush. "I can't help thinking that something will happen to one of you and it will be my fault for dragging you into this."

The clarity and seriousness in Felicity's features makes her look like a new person—one Laurel hasn't seen since the day they met. "Whatever happens today, it isn't your fault," the pilot insists with a sudden burst of passion. "My life, my choice, Laurel. _I_ made the decision to sign on for this mission. Oliver, Roy, and Diggle all did the same. We either live or we die, but we do it on our terms."

"I'm still afraid you won't make it through this," Laurel whispers.

"We may not," Oliver replies with a lift of his shoulder, not even opening his eyes. He might as well be discussing the weather with all the emotion in his voice. "We could all die today." Crossing his arms over his chest, he turns to look at Laurel. "All of us accepted death a long time ago, Laurel. That's what gives this team the edge. If you're not afraid of death, then you have the edge over your enemies." That look appears again, the one she's come to know very well in the last week: his eyes light up, mouth pulling into a smirk. Even half asleep, Oliver Queen is on the jazz. "You want to get through today? Figure you're dead already."

Before Laurel can do anything more than gape at him, Felicity reaches over and pats his shoulder. "Oliver, my lovely," she starts in a gentle tone, reminiscent of the same tone Oliver uses when he says _Felicity, honey_. "This is why we don't let you do pep talks. I know you think that was helpful, but not everyone is an ARGUS-trained spec ops soldier." In a loud whisper, she adds, "Laurel is a _civilian_. Most of her career training has been grammar and how to use a word processor."

With a smile, the blonde turns back to Laurel. "It's okay to be afraid," Felicity assures her with a smile, pulling Oliver's jacket tighter around her as she slips out of her sleeping bag. Her pajama pants are covered in little moose dressed like Batman. "But you have to make a choice, Laurel: are you gonna stand there and be afraid, or are you going to push past that fear and take action?" She stands, padding over on her bare feet to poke the reporter in the shoulder. "That's the choice you'll have to face today." Winking, she adds, "I think you'll choose the second one, but I've always been an optimist."

"Optimism is just a nice word for foolishness," Oliver replies, readjusting as he closes his eyes again. It must be an old joke between them; Felicity mouths the words and rolls her eyes as a smile appears on his face.

"Oliver's a pessimist," Felicity explains.

"I'm a _realist_ ," Oliver corrects.

The blonde rounds on him, placing her hands on her hips. "You're a Negative Nellie," she accuses. "You always see the worst in things."

"I see the world the way it is," is his response. "I can't help it if the world has gone to hell."

Rolling her eyes again, Felicity bounces back to him, bending over to kiss his forehead. "I love you, but you need to look up _realism_ as your word of the day, Oliver," she declares. With a big stretch and a yawn, she turns toward the helicopter, patting the side of it. "Time to face another day, Myrna!" As she climbs into the helicopter, she starts singing, loudly proclaiming that she has a feeling tonight will be a good night.

She reappears a second later with her bag, dancing along to whatever song is playing in her head. In the process, she drapes Oliver's jacket over his lap and shimmies out of her shirt with her back to Laurel. The reporter moves to turn away, but something catches her attention: along the line of Felicity's left shoulder, inked into her skin are the words _she flies with her own wings_.

As she turns away, Laurel remembers a question she hasn't had the chance to ask: "Do the four of you have a unit tattoo? I know a lot of military groups do."

"One second," Felicity replies, her voice muffled. The next thing Laurel knows, the blonde is standing in front of her, wearing a t-shirt with six airplane gauges that declares, _The_ only _six pack I'll ever need_. With a smile, she holds up her right hand, proudly displaying the outside of her arm. There, just below the wrist, is a three-inch long green arrow with a stylized, black α over it. It takes Laurel a second to remember it's a lowercase alpha.

"As a spec ops unit, we couldn't have the traditional big, proud designs," Felicity explains. "But like always, Oliver found a way around it. I like it. Simple and understated—and no one ever notices it." Laurel understands that; she had dismissed it as a shadow earlier. "So we all just have the Alpha Arrow. It's our thing." With a shrug, she skips a few steps before grabbing her bag and diving toward the bathroom.

Laurel makes sure she's gone before turning back to Oliver. His eyes might be closed, but his shoulders are too rigid for him to be asleep. "Oliver…" She starts, unsure about how to broach the topic on her mind. He opens one eye, turning toward her ever so slightly and lifting his eyebrows in a silent question.

Though she doesn't know what to say, someone needs to say it, and it's clear that Digg and Roy are too afraid of him to do so. Or maybe they have more self-preservation than she does. It's hard to tell after a night of staring at the ceiling. "I know it's none of my business," she starts gently, "but I think you should tell Felicity how you feel about her."

Both eyes open at that, and a soft smile graces his face. "You're right," Oliver agrees. His features harden into a stony mask. "It _is_ none of your business."

They've been telling her for the last week how stubborn Oliver is, but Laurel hasn't really understood the depth of that until today. Kneeling next to him, she tries to explain, "Oliver, how do you _not_ see how she looks at you?" He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, turning away from her. Message received, loud and clear: he is _done_ with this conversation. Too bad; she isn't. "She acts like you hung the moon and painted the stars. And you look at her the same way."

When the smile reappears on his face, it's matched with a hard look in his eyes. "I don't expect you to understand," Oliver answers in a tone cold enough to rival the freezing temperatures. "You live in the same city as your family and meet your father and sister for lunch every Sunday. You have a job and a home. You never have to think about where you're going to sleep or how you're going to survive. You never wonder if you'll never see your family again." The chuckle that leaves him is bitter. " _I_ do." He glances in the direction Felicity disappeared. "Felicity can't thrive under those conditions, Laurel."

"She's not thriving where she's at," Laurel retorts. "She's locked up in a mental institution."

"Do you think I don't know that?" he demands, low and harsh. The wild look in his eyes reminds her of a trapped animal. In some ways, he probably is; there's no way out of the nightmare in his situation, and he can only lash out at the bars of his cage. "I'm the one who _put_ her in that goddamn place!" Laurel flinches at his tone, and he runs a hand over his face before continuing in a quieter tone, "Don't try to explain the situation to me, Laurel. We live this every day."

She sighs. "I just think you two deserve to be happy together," Laurel tries to explain.

He leans his head forward to stare at her. "My team is in one place for the first time in two months," is Oliver's even reply. "It might not be everything, but it's more than we can hope for." He sighs, his eyes trailing in the direction Felicity disappeared to. If his expression isn't wistful, Laurel isn't a reporter. "And Felicity is happy." He shrugs. "I'm happy enough. More than I deserve."

"You're _miserable_ ," Laurel corrects, kneeling next to him. Oliver snorts. "I barely even _know_ you, and I can see that." She shakes her head. "Just… I guess I'm worried about you." This time he stares at her— _really_ stares. It isn't another attempt to analyze her, but as if he's seeing Laurel—her personality, her desires, her flaws—for the very first time. "Without you, this team falls apart. I don't want to watch that happen. Just…"

Laurel blows out a breath; talking to him is like trying to break through a cement wall with a rubber mallet. "Remember you have people you can depend on, okay? It doesn't have to be me," she rushes to add. "But don't think you're alone. You have _at least_ three people in this building who care about you enough to die for you." She reaches out to touch his shoulder, but common sense kicks in and she awkwardly withdraws her hand. "Don't forget that."

Though Oliver doesn't say anything, Laurel rises to her feet, satisfied that she might have gotten through to him. Then again, he's also the most stubborn human being on the planet, so she can't be sure. Either way, she tried—and before five a.m., too. It's a better result than she could have hoped for.

Before either of them can say anything more, Felicity skips back into the room, never breaking stride as she grabs Laurel's arm. "Come on—you're going back to bed," she declares without warning.

Laurel is already shaking her head, trying to pull away from Felicity's grasp. It's futile; the little pilot is a vice grip. "Felicity, I can't. There's a lot to be done and—"

"The mission doesn't start until this evening," Felicity assures her, marching back through the small space that the boys share. Roy groans once and rolls over. When Felicity speaks again, it's in a softer tone, as if trying to avoid waking him. "You have plenty of time to get some rest." She pats Laurel's hand. "And we'd rather have you well-rested and refreshed. Sleepless people are useless people, Laurel. They can't focus because their brains are all fuzzy and full of…" She trails off, flouncing a hand. "Not… sleeping… ness."

Frowning, she adds, "Except Oliver. He doesn't sleep very often, but his brain is full of plotty things." She laughs. "Then again, I do sleep—well and often—but my brain is all fuzzy anyway." Leaning in, she confides in Laurel, "We're two odd ducks."

"Maybe," Laurel agrees with a wide yawn, "but it's a good kind of odd."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter: 21  
Word Count: 3874**

 **Notes:** I'm behind times again, sadly. I've spent most of this week sleeping after hard days at work, and this chapter did _not_ want to come out right. Hemingway once said that sometimes writing comes easy, but other times it's like drilling through rock. This one was definitely the latter.

That being said, I think this chapter answers some questions y'all have had thus far. On the other hand, you should probably prepare yourselves for a lot of angst before you start.

 **If you haven't read "Change of Plans," I'd suggest it.** This chapter references the events in that one-shot a few times.

As always, thank you so much for reading. I appreciate it if you choose to leave a comment. Thank you!

* * *

Sara stares down at the thin material of the dress she's wearing. Black material covers her chest and her waist, but the sleeves are lace, as is the material between the top and bottom. The back is all lace down to her waist, and she's already chilly while in the hangar. "I'm going to murder Oliver," she declares.

"No, you aren't," Felicity replies absently, sliding the zipper up the side and trying not to snag the lace. "I know the feeling, but if you kill him, we're down a planner and we _still_ have to rescue Iris." She pats Sara's shoulder sympathetically before holding up the shoes—black deathtraps. "You can have your revenge afterward." After a moment of thought, she adds, "But I'd prefer you didn't kill him." With a wink, she whispers, "I only have a few friends, you know."

As she takes the shoes and sits on the bed to put them on, Sara stares at the blonde in front of her. Felicity has been the only one on the team she can't quite read. While she might be an Air Force pilot and mechanic, a soldier Felicity Smoak is not. Honestly, Sara can't understand how she made it to Captain; career soldiers are rigid, linear thinkers, and Felicity is as wild and unpredictable as Oliver in her own way. High-ranking officers don't appreciate that kind of creativity and impulsiveness.

Even now she stands in a pair of standard-issue prison transport pants, cargo and army green, wearing only a black sports bra with them. After taking a minute to appreciate the view, she noticed the multiple tattoos inked across her skin. While she's used to seeing tattoos as a part of military life, Felicity's are… _interesting_. Instead of Air Force wings, she has a beautiful set of blue wings under her hairline. Instead of a large tattoo with her unit name, there's a single green arrow with an alpha on her arm. The only words about flying are _she flies with her own wings_ , on the back of her shoulder.

It's the other two that are unique, one on each side of her ribcage. One is entirely black and white, with the words _I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions_. A line of stitches goes through them, making the words meet at odd angles that don't line up quite right. The other is the more interesting, in Sara's opinion. In cursive are two quotes: _"Have I gone mad?" "I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I'll tell you a secret: all the best people are."_ A gold pocket watch and the symbols from a suit of playing cards dance around it.

Unable to resist, Sara asks, "Do you like _Alice in Wonderland_?" Felicity turns, eyes wide and bright, reaching up to adjust glasses that aren't there. Sara motions to the tattoo on the pilot's side. "That's from _Alice in Wonderland_ , right?"

The smile she earns in reply is cryptic. "No, not especially," Felicity answers. "It's more of a reminder to myself."

"About Ollie?" Sara asks with a smile.

It earns her a laugh from the pilot, along with a warm smile that accompanies his name alone. She's starting to decide that Laurel had them pegged correctly—a pleasant conclusion. It took her all of five minutes to realize Felicity is _good_ for Ollie. "No, not about Oliver," Felicity answers. "Though Oliver's kind of crazy is my favorite." Her cheeks warm, and Sara laughs. Just when she thought Felicity couldn't get more adorable. "That's a secret, by the way," she rushes to add. "Can you keep a secret?" Her eyes turn bright with mischief, looking a bit like she stuck a fork in an electrical socket.

"Of course," Sara answers, though she doubts that's a secret at this point. With a wink, she adds, "Military girls have to stick together, right?"

Felicity nearly drops in her lap, wrapping an arm through Sara's. "Right," she agrees with a wide smile. "I thought you could—you seem like the kind of person to keep a secret." She nods once to herself. "I'm a good judge of character."

A moment later, Felicity is on her feet, pulling on a white tank top and buttoning up a stern-looking uniform shirt that does nothing to dampen her sunny personality. "My tattoos are about _me_ , Sara," Felicity finally answers. "They're reminders. I never forget the important things about my boys, but sometimes I forget the important things about _me_." She shrugs. "It was Oliver's idea."

It's not the first time, but Sara wonders what she's missing about Felicity. There's something the others don't really talk about. Even Laurel seemed tentative to mention some things, only saying it wasn't her place. If it was her guess, it has something to do with the nasty scar Felicity took care to hide when she pulled her hair into a ponytail. Pilots get shot down all the time, and she has those familiar, glassy eyes of one who took a hard hit. But whatever it is, Sara figures it's none of her business. If Ollie thought Felicity wasn't qualified to be here, she _wouldn't_ be.

But, then again, Ollie seems to have a blind spot where Felicity is concerned.

Before Sara can ask further, there's a knock on the door. "We need to be in place in forty minutes," Ollie's voice calls from the other side. "Are you two almost ready?"

Felicity practically skips to the door to open it. The moment she does, it's to wrap her arms around Ollie's neck as though they haven't seen each other in lifetimes. "Ready, willing, and able, Major," she declares as he staggers back a few steps. "I think Sara might want to murder you, though," she confesses as she releases him. Her arm wraps around his as she leans into him. "I convinced her to wait until the mission is over."

Rising to her feet on the too-tall heels, she takes long, though slow, strides to Ollie, crossing her arms. "I can't believe you're making me play a _prostitute_ , Ollie. Or that you think a _woman_ has to be qualified to play that role."

"Don't worry, Sara," a deep voice calls out. She can just barely see Diggle roll his eyes in the other room. "You'll be purchasing your drugs from a _person of color_."

Laurel sits on a rickety chair, tapping her fingers as she snorts. "Well, at least you aren't the useless woman who sits and does nothing the entire time," she adds.

Ollie turns to throw him a dark look, but Diggle has already turned away. "It's not about what _I_ think," he replies. "It's about what works. I need a woman to get close to Iris and let her know we're coming. Sara is the ideal choice because of her connection to Laurel. It just so happens that the police won't question a woman in a tight dress buying cocaine."

Eyes falling on Laurel, he adds, "You aren't trained to defend yourself, Laurel. You haven't been taught how to survive a black op." An ironic smile plays on his lips. "And, unlike most of the journalism classes you've taken, spec ops training is more like a pass-fail situation. And instead of an F, failing means death." Laurel looks away, but Ollie isn't done. "I'm not sending you in to get killed."

He turns back toward Digg. "And John, you were the seller by process of elimination. I need Felicity as our helicopter pilot. Roy's age makes him questionable as someone who can get his hands on that much cocaine, and I have ties to the Bratva." His expression hardens. "If I go in as a prisoner, there are too many rival gangs in prison and too many guards who won't care. I won't come out alive, and I'm not one for suicide missions."

"What about that one time in—?" Felicity starts to ask, a furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

"That was different," Ollie answers before she can finish. He glances around his team. "I needed you as the pilot, John on the missile launcher, and Roy driving. That was process of elimination, too." He winks down at her. "It didn't matter that I was captured. I wasn't the one who could get us out of that soup sandwich, anyway." Nudging her shoulder, he concludes, "Sometimes my plan is _you_ having a plan."

"Wait a minute," Roy calls, rising to his feet, pointing a finger at Ollie. "You _planned_ to get yourself captured? And you planned to have _Batshit_ "—he waves a hand toward Felicity—"get us out of it?" He shakes his head. "We _almost died_ on that mission!"

"Almost, almost, almost," Felicity mimics, crossing her eyes. Sara bites down on a laugh, but Ollie doesn't manage the same control. "You're always talking about all the times we _almost_ died. It's very negative." She shrugs. "Besides, _almost_ only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

"They _had_ hand grenades!" Roy sputters.

Finally Felicity releases Ollie, charging down the stairs to poke a finger in Roy's chest. "You _almost_ died. So what?" she spits. Roy shrinks under her glare, and Sara wishes she had popcorn. "You _didn't_. Do you really think I'd _ever_ let anything happen to you?" When Felicity lunges for him, Roy flinches, but she only wraps him in a hug. He returns it reluctantly, face coloring. "You're my special Roy. Nothing is gonna happen to you while I'm breathing." She pokes his shoulder when she releases him. "Except when you're mean to me. Then I'm gonna break your nose. But no one _else_ can break your nose—not without answering to _me_."

With a wink, she adds, "Don't pretend you didn't like that mission. You got to steal an elephant. An _elephant_ , Roy." She holds out her hands. "How many thieves have stolen an elephant? That's a _huge_ feather in your cap."

"Yeah, I'm sure they're telling legends right now about how I stole an elephant," Roy deadpans.

Felicity beams, oblivious to the sarcasm. "Exactly, my dear Roy." She kisses his cheek before bouncing back up the stairs. "Come on, Oliver," she calls, tugging on his arm. Ollie lets her lead him down the stairs with nothing more than an indulgent smile. Sara smiles, though part of her is trying to resist the urge to gag. "You need to put on your guard uniform. I'm excited you have a uniform. You've always looked _great_ in uniform. Remember the first time we met?"

"That would be impossible to forget," he replies.

"If you hadn't been such a lying liar face, I wouldn't have been able to speak," Felicity continues. "I mean, you're always nice to look at, but you're _very_ nice to look at in uniform." When Ollie shakes his head, the pilot turns to Sara for confirmation. Sara nods, but she can't help to admit to herself that he looks even better _without_ a uniform. Or anything else, for that matter. "It's a shame there's a hat," Felicity continues, leading him toward the bathroom. "You aren't allowed to put on the hat until it's mission time, okay?"

When she starts to lead him into the room, Ollie stops her. "Felicity, honey, I'm perfectly capable of changing clothes on my own," he says in a gentle tone.

Whatever Felicity says next is too low for Sara to hear. All she knows is that Felicity crosses her arms while her bottom lip juts out, and Ollie disappears into the bathroom with pink cheeks. The corporal resists the urge to laugh; she doesn't think she's seen anyone else embarrass Ollie before. In fact, she thought Ollie was shameless.

Felicity Smoak might be her new hero.

As if she read Sara's mind, Felicity rounds on her. "Well, if Oliver is going to be a stick in the mud," she starts, "I can do your hair and makeup." She turns to call over her shoulder, "Laurel, do you want to help me finish Sara's look?"

Laurel is on her feet in an instant, but Sara takes two steps back—not an easy trick in the too-high heels she's wearing. Suddenly Felicity is the object of her nightmares. "No way," she declares. "I don't wear makeup."

"Sara Lance might not wear makeup," Felicity agrees slowly, "but the Russian physicist _Valentina Vostok_ does." Sara frowns at the unfamiliar name, but the pilot just winks at her with a brilliant smile. " _Especially_ when she's going to go clubbing after buying cocaine from her dealer."

When Sara opens her mouth, nothing comes out. Finally, she manages to ask, "Did you just give my role in the con a name?" She frowns. " _And_ a background that doesn't make me a prostitute?"

Felicity shrugs with a smile. "My gift to you," she replies with a wink. "Military girls have to stick together, right?" She loops her arm through Sara's. "Now sit on the bed and I'll finish the look." She winks. "Dr. Vostok." When Sara hesitates, Felicity adds with a pout and wide, glassy eyes, "Please?"

"You might as well give in," Diggle adds from his chair. Traitor. "If you don't, you'll pay for it later." He grins over at Sara. "She might be cute, but she's devious." He nods toward her. "She'll just tell Oliver on you."

Before Sara can point out she isn't afraid of Ollie, Roy adds, "And if she gets _even the smallest bit_ teary-eyed when she's telling him about it, Oliver will _shit bricks_." He shudders, as if reliving an incident. "There's no living with him when he thinks Felicity is upset. You think he's a pain in the ass _now?_ Watch what happens when he thinks you upset her." Roy lifts an eyebrow. "A general said a lot of awful things about Felicity to her face one time. Oliver found her crying. So what does he do? He haunts the guy like a goddamn ghost for a _year_. He finds out the guy is stealing and he turns over evidence, so the general gets dishonorably discharged." Roy crosses his arms. "And that was back when Oliver was _nice_."

"Oliver is _always_ nice," Felicity replies.

He scoffs as Digg snorts. "Maybe to _you_ ," Roy retorts. "But you're _Felicity_. You're cute and blonde and happy almost all the time. You flirt with him and compliment him. You're kind and sweet and _sincere_. And when he's being unreasonable, you rip him to shreds with a hug and a kiss on the cheek." He scowls, rolling his eyes. "And somewhere in that big, dumb brain of his, he knows you're the best thing that ever happened to him, so he treats you like it."

Felicity flushes crimson, staring down at her pink Converse that are _so_ not standard-issue prison transport pilot gear. Before anyone else can say anything, she drags Sara back into the room, making her sit on the bed. Both Felicity and Laurel round on her with an array of makeup, curling irons, and nail polish.

After what feels like an eternity of getting poked and prodded, Felicity finally releases Sara with a satisfied smile as Laurel tosses over a black, faux-fur coat. "I already hate this mission," Sara declares with a sigh as she pulls on the coat.

"Just think," Felicity replies cheerfully, "it could have been a mission in Kazakhstan and we could be sweating to death in the desert." Winking, she adds, "It can _always_ be worse, Sara." She skips a few steps away before turning back to shrug. "And it usually is, so that's a win." With that, she bounds down the rest of the stairs.

Sara turns to share a look with her sister. Laurel has dark circles under her eyes, but otherwise, she looks bright and ready. Good; she'll need to be. "I can't figure out if that level of happy is good or just annoying," the corporal says with tilt of her head.

Shaking her head, Laurel admits, "Probably a little of both." She nods. "But I can't think of anyone else I'd want to fly a helicopter." The two of them start down the stairs together. "I read her full file, you know." Sara snorts; of course she did. Laurel has always been good about doing her research. "Felicity had a Master's from MIT by the time we were starting college. Her IQ is through the roof and she has a Mensa membership. Oliver thinks she's the best pilot the Air Force ever trained."

"Oliver thinks the sun rises and sets in her ass," Sara replies with a grin. Laurel returns it, and they both roll their eyes. Even as much as he's changed, one thing is constant with Ollie: he's a complete idiot when it comes to relationships. Still, it's cute to see him in love for a change. Not that he knows what to do with a romantic relationship.

By the time they catch up to the others, Roy is behind the wheel of the convoy truck, yawning as he slouches down in it. Diggle is leaning against the Porsche's sleek frame, but Oliver and Felicity stand next to one another. Though Felicity was right and Ollie looks great in the uniform, the furrow between his eyebrows and the frown on his face detracts from it.

"No, honey," Sara barely hears him say. "You fly _north by northwest_ , okay? That's how you'll get us out of there. We'll have a car waiting." Though he's trying to stay calm, she can hear the stress in his voice: the higher pitch, the rushed words. Even the way he drums his fingers on Felicity's arm belies that nervous energy. "If you come back here, they'll find us. We'll be done in seconds."

For the first time since Sara has met her, Felicity frowns. "I fly… north," she repeats, blankly, pointing west. Ollie points her a counter turn clockwise. "North," she tries again. "Not here. Here is bad." He nods once. "So I fly north by northwest and keep the bad guys off our tail."

"Exactly," Ollie assures her.

Just when Sara thinks the conversation is over, she watches Felicity take a few steps toward the helicopter before stopping to kick the sports car's tires. Ollie is with her in an instant as she yells, "Damn it!" Though he tries to calm her with gentle words, she pushes him away and kicks the tire again. "What did I tell you three years ago, Oliver?" She pokes him in the chest. "I'm all… _busted!_ Bringing me back was a mistake." She motions toward the convoy. "These are my _boys!_ You're my Oliver! When my head gets all scramble-y, I put you in danger!" She turns suddenly, and her face becomes obscured behind Ollie's shoulder when he reaches for her. "I can't… I can't do this, Oliver. If something happens to you… If I _lose_ you…" Her voice cracks. "I can't let my thoughts all twisted and—"

Sara gapes at the sudden change, even as Ollie pulls Felicity close. His thumb brushes under her eyes as she sniffs. "Hey," he tells her, so low Sara can barely hear it. "You're not gonna lose me, okay?" Felicity tries to look away, but he holds her head firm. "I made you a promise back in Iraq. Do you remember it?" Closing her eyes, she nods once. "Good. I've broken a lot of promises, but not that one." He kisses her forehead. "Felicity, this is your team, and we need you. That will never change. No matter what."

Wiping at her eyes, she declares with a watery sob, "That was _beautiful_ of you to say, Major. Thank you."

When he pulls her in for a hug, Felicity clings to Ollie's shirt like a lifeline. Sara nods to herself; she was right. There's more to Felicity Smoak than meets the eye. Suddenly she and Ollie don't seem so different: both of them hiding a part of themselves back behind walls and smiles.

"I know you can do this," Ollie declares, eyes only for the helicopter pilot. "But do _you_ know you can do this?" Slowly, she nods, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "North by northwest, Captain," he says. "Do you need me to write it down for you? Would that help?"

"No, I think I got it," she assures him, nodding to herself several times. "North by northwest," she mutters to herself, repeating it multiple times. "But thank you, Oliver."

He cups her face, and Felicity leans into the touch, eyes falling shut. Her hand covers his, and the two of them share a moment not meant for Sara to understand. Even so, she does, all too well; it's the kind of quiet moment that she's only ever shared with Nyssa. "You don't have to _thank_ me, Felicity," Ollie insists, his thumb brushing against her cheek.

With that, he pulls away, making a line for the convoy truck as Felicity goes for the helo. Ollie runs a hand through his hair as he breezes past Sara, but she catches her arm. He turns on her with wide eyes, and she asks in a low voice, "Do you think she's up to this, Ollie?"

The full force of his glare is bearing down on her a moment later. "You can question me all you want, Corporal," he answers with an eerie calm. "You can question my plans or your orders or your role in this con. You can question my abilities to lead this team, but don't you _ever_ ask that question again." He starts to walk away, but turns. "If you're still going to help, you can go with Digg." Glancing over his shoulder, he calls, "Laurel, you're with me."

With a huff, she marches toward the Porsche. Digg opens the door for her, but it isn't until he pulls into the driver's seat that he says in that quiet, rich voice, "Roy isn't always eloquent," Diggle says as he starts the engine, "but what he told you today wasn't wrong." He nods toward the convoy in front of them, toward Ollie. "If she's upset, he's unsettled."

"What's wrong with Felicity?" Sara finally asks. The question feels good on her tongue after holding it back for so long. Before he can answer, she adds, "I saw the scar on her head, Digg. She was shot down, wasn't she?"

"About five years ago," Digg replies with a nod, watching the truck pull out ahead of him. "We didn't know her back then." He sighs, and the expression reminds her of Ollie's. Maybe he isn't the only one who carries that weight. "It… messed with her head." Sara's eyes widen, but Diggle waves a hand. "She's still sharp as a tack, but sometimes the travel and the strange surroundings affect her short-term memory. Especially with directions."

Sara's brow furrows, but she hesitates this time. "I'm not trying to say anything, Sergeant, but I don't know your team the way you do." His expression never wavers. Sara starts to wonder if it ever does; maybe John Diggle is the team's calm in the chaos. "Do you think she'll be able to do this?"

He meets her eyes with all the certainty in the world. "She's never let us down before."


End file.
